The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1885-10-16
THE WOMEN WHO WRITE.
The Story of One Manuscript Which Is the
Story of Many.

story Oh MANY.
Atlanta Constitution.
It was simply square block Of manuscript.
There were about eight hundred pages. closely
and carefully written. At the morning editorial
meeting there was some disposition to laugh at
It, The man who writes the short paragraphs
said: ''See the waste basket yawung for the
poor thing" The long paragraph man said
1.-TWO hundred stamps enclosed for return post
age" But the smiles did not deepen into laugh
ter There were more tears than ink on those
poor pages, and they were the tears of woman,
too. 1t happened that we knew the history of
that manuscript Few such bundles find their
way to the editors sanctum. without their pedi-
gree of sorrow carefully attached. The two are in
separabie-as the hectic flush on the cheek of the
doomed. or the cough in the consumptive's throat.
This was manuscript novel 1t was written
by widowed mother. who sewed all day and
wrote ali night that she might feed her children.
1t is appalling to think Of the weary hours
when forcing back the hot eyelids and squirting
on the numb fingers, she hung over this work
even in the small hours, that she might realize
the quicker. One fancy her leaning with
tender smile over the pinched faces of her little
ones and dropping into their troubled sleep the
promise: When mothers story is done, babies,
1t will be better for you" And so she faltered
on. Night after night Week after week.
Month after month. Working there when the
tremulous glory of spring in the air Bend
ing patiently over the pages when the stridulous
cry of the cricket swooned the suitry night.
Still writing when the fine aroma OF har
vest caught and entranced the senses. And
still crouching there, thinner and paer, but all
the swifter when the roaring winds shook the
little shutters within an inch of their lives. and
the ghostlike fakes of snow swarmed silently
against her window panes. 1t is piteous to think
how useless it all is All the long aud weary
nights gone for naught. All the fairies coniured
or cudgelled from the aching brain, and to no
purpose. Even the secrets of the womans heart
and the romance and the passion long ago buried
in grave, paraded here pitifully and
shrinking in the light that profanes them
but cumber a useless page This novel is
but one of scores that come as it came.
1t is not too much to say that to this office
full bushel of manuscript often comes in a sim
gle day With what hopes it is freighted, and
from what heroic struggles it has come, and with
what sickenlng dread its return is awaited, we
do not dare to guess. 1t is SO easy to read that
1t looks as If writing were easy Some of the
stories printed poor that they offer temp
tations to new writers. Even the grief of a des-
olate woman or the struggles of a widowed one
so absorb her senses and beat so unanimously in
her heart. and so sob. and cry. and thunder
through her whole being that she feels if she
but fling her arms to heaven and give them voice
the whole world must stop and listen. And soft
goes. Women will write-God help them-for
loves sake for hunger's sake and for
fames sake. Where one hits a thousand miss
This one being accepted. twenty others, better,
perhaps, are perforce rejected. The accepted of
to day, hurryng to come second time, find
themselves rejected. A few drops Of water are
wanted, and the great waves roll on. When we
all get the million dollars we are working for
let US join together and transcend the most beau
tiful philanthropy of the past Let us print a
magaZine-it must be issued every hour-that
will print and pay for everything every woman
sends. In the mea mime let remember that
under the husks of even the toughest MSS. there
is often the finest essence of hope and purpose,
and oftener still the reverent sorrow of "a poor
wome-ss heart In the meantime. we say to all
who feel impelled to write: "Dontl Still, if
you must, if you have the same impulse to write
that bird has to sing let your pent up fances
find expression, and the Lord have mercy on
your