The national leader., 1889-02-09
HOW 1 WRITE MY NOVELS
The Dutchess" Tells How Her Stories
are Born and Written.

The Dutchess" Tells How Her Stories
are Born and Written.
To sit down in cold blood and delib-
erately set to, TO cudgel ones brains
with view to dragging from them a
plot wherewith to make a book is II
have been told) the habit Of some
writers, and those of no small reputa-
tion. Happy people! What powers Of
, concentration must be theirsl What a
belief in themselves-that most desir-
able of all beliefs, that sweet propeller
toward the temple of fame. Have
faith in yourself. and all men will have
| faith in you.
But as for me, l have to lie awake O.
nights longing and hoping Tor inspira-
tions that oft-tlmes are slow to come.
But when they do come, what de-
light All at once, in Il flash, as it
were, the whole story lies open before
me-a delicate diorama, vague here
and there, but with beginning and an
end--clear as crystal. / can never tell
when these inspirations may be coming;
sometimes in the dark watches of the
night; sometimes when driving through
the crisp, sweet air; sometimes word
in crowded drawing-room, a thought
rising from the book in hand, sends
them with rush to tho surface, where
they are seized and brought to land and
carried home in triumph. After that
the dressing" of them is simple en-
ough.
But just in the beginning it was not
so simple. Alas! for that first story
of m1ne-the raven sent out of my
ark and never saw again. Unlike the
proverbial curse, it did not come home
to roost; it stayed where I had sent it
The only thing ever heard of it again
was a polite letter from the editor in
whose Office it lay, telling me | could
have 1t back if enclosed stamps to tue
amount of two-pence halfpenny, other
wise he should feel 1t his unpleasant
duty to ''consign it to the waste-paper
basket" I was only sixteen then, and
it is very long time ago; but have
always hated the words ''waste paper"
ever since. | don't remember that l
was either angry or indignant, but l do
remember that / was both sad and
sorry. AT all events, l never sent that
miserable twopence halfpenny, so |
conclude my first MS. went to light the
fire of the heartless editor
So much comfort may have bestow-
ed on him, but he left me comfortless;
and yet who can say what good he may
not have done me? Paths made too
smooth leave the feet unprepared for
rougher roads. To step always N the
primrose ways is death to the higher de-
oh I
over that poor rejected story, beautify-
ing it las l fondly, if enormously, be-
lieved). adding word here, a senti-
ment therel So conscientiously mind
ed was l, that even the headings of the
chapters were scraps Of poetry (so call
ed) done all by myself. Well, never
mind. was very young then, and as
they say upon the stage. I ''meant
we'll"
For long twelvemonth after that /
never dreamed Of putting pen to paper.
J. had given myself up. as 1t were. l
was the most modest of children, and
fully decided within myself that man
so clever as real live editor must
He had seen and judged, and practical
ly told me that writing was not my
forte.
Yet the inevitable hour came round
once more. Once again an idea caught
me, held me, persuaded me that could
put it into words. l struggled with 1t
this time, but it was too strong for me;
that early exhilarating certainty that
there was something in me-" as peo-
pie say, was once more mine, and seiz-
ing my pen, 1 sat down and wrote,
wrote, wrote, until the idea was an OBJ
ject formed.
With closed doors 1 wrote at stolen
moments. I had not forgotten the
quips and cranks uttered at my expense
by my brother and sister on the refusal
of that first-last manuscript. To them
it had been fund of joy. In fear and
trembling 1 wrote this second effusion,
finished it, wept over it lit was the
most lachrymose Of 'tales,l and finally
under cover of night induced the house.
maid to carry it to the post. To that
first unsympathetic editor l sent 1t
| (which argues distinct lack Of malice
in my disposition), and oh, joyl it was
actually accepted. have written
many thing since, but doubt If |
have ever known again the unadulter-
ated delight that was mine when my
first Insignificant cheque was held with
in my hands.
AS for my characters; you ask how
conceive them. Once the plot is res
cued from the misty depths of the
mind, the characters come and range
themselves readily enough. A scene,
we will say, suggests itself-a garden,
a flower show. u ballroom, what you
willard two people in it, A young
man and woman for choice. They are
altodys young with me for that matter,
for what, under the heaven we are
promised, is so altogether perfect as
youtll Oh, that we could all be young
forever and forever; that Time,
''That treads more soft than e'er did mid
night thief"
could be abruptly slain by some great
conquerer, and We poor human things
| let loose, defiant of its thrallsl But no
such conquerer comes, and time dies
swiftly as of yore, and drags us head
long, whether we will OF not, to the un-
attractive grave.
If any of you, dear readers, is as bad
sleeper as I am, you will understand
how thoughts swarm at midnight.