Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1929-05-07
THIS AND THAT
BY CHARLES E. TRACEWELL.

about this time he made one other
effort to emancipate himself from the
drudgery of authorship"
So James Boswell writes in his life
of Samuel Johnson, and he leaves the
reader to use his own Judgment as to
whether the art Of writing is a sort of
drudgery or not.
There are perhaps few writers of
any degree who do not find actual
composition a drudgery in sense. The
latest and one Of the most interesting
instances in the long line Of English
letters is that of the petite and debo-
nair Anita LooS, whose Gentlemen
Prefer Blondes" was an outstanding
success several years ago. Miss Loos
says that she is tired of writing and
won't do 1t again, just as Marion Talley
has announced that she has given up
opera and will retire to the farm.
Whatever faith may be put in such
announcements, they show a normal
feeling toward actual composition. 1t
is probable that no one ever actually
liked it of itself and for itself.
Men through the ages have tried all
sorts Of ways o. writing from cutting
out letters in stone and tmpressing
them on brick.
They have written in longhand with
pen and pencil, they use typewriters
and dictate to secretaries. but there is
always a hidden sorrow in the cup
which no one knows but him who
writes
In the first place, writing is not ex-
actly like any other work in the world.
1t takes more out Of you, In sense,
than any other, and does not tend to
revivify, as manual labor may do.
The most dreaded part of writing,
to the great majority of those who write
for their living, is the beginning.
The start Is what takes large part
Of the joy out of literary composition.
1t might seem easy enough to sit
down and begin. "All you got to do is
start!" But, oh! there's the rub. To
thing to follow with, that the writer
know what he wants to say entirely!
Short of which there will linger with
him diSinclination to take up work.
It will not do to say that the whole
course of composition must be plotted
out in advance. A writer, whether of
narrative or other forms, seldom has a
precise map Of everything he is going
to say.
To have such plotted course would
be to rule out the greatest single aid
a writer posseSses-that is, the driving
power of thought itself to suggest and
build up as he goes along.
Many an author (Who perhaps would
never confess 1t afterward) has seen
some of his best productions spring up
literally from q blank sheet, or several
blank sheets Of paper. When he sat
down with pen or typewriter. as the
case was, he had only a vague idea of
what he wanted to say.
While he was writing, something else
was happening. Words, thoughts,
ukoIa moro nry.o Volou noVoa 20 hin, o,If ~
a clear sky. He did not know how
they came, but they did. Whether
what he was doing was destined to be
called great, or merely good, or aver
age made no difference. The phe-
in all cases were the same.
After a writer "getS going good" it
sometimes seems to him that some
force or agency outside himself has
taken the matter into its hands. 1t
was because ancient writers felt this
way that they believed in inspiration"
Now there is such thing as inspira-
ton, but 1t doesn't mean a fine poetic
frenzy, or the direct intercession Of the
Creator in ones work.
The inspiration which comes to every
one who writes, whether so little as an
eSsayette or as much as q great novel,
as evaneScent a thing as a glittering
advertisement or as weighty matter as
a great sermon, is simply the result Of
the flow and interflow of thought.
Memories are stirred, old and new facts
combined, SO that while the moving
hand which writes moves on the sta
tionary mind which is directing it is
already on the next page, or maybe
over OH the last page, so wonderful is
this everyday miracle.
How do you do it?" an admirer will
ask.