ORIGINALITY. KINDS AND METHODS

ORIGINALITY. KINDS AND METHODS
ORIGINALITY. KINDS AND METHODS
Mr. Hawthorne's distinctive trait is invention, creation, imagination, originality —a trait which, in the literature of fiction, is positively worth all the rest. . . . The inventive or original mind as frequently displays itself in novelty of tone as in novelty of matter. Mr. Hawthorne is original at all points. 
-EDGAR ALLAN' POE. 
It ought to be the first endeavor of a writer to distinguish nature from custom; or that which is established because it is right, from that which is right only because it is established. — &mum. JOHNSON, The Rambler. 
IT is surely not unreasonable to expect that
a writer who wishes to have his short stories
accepted by a certain magazine shall familiarize
himself with some of the fiction previously
printed in that magazine — and in a good many
others. Yet would-be contributors are constantly offering to patient editors tales whose
plots are so threadbare that to print them
would be to invite ridicule from a majority of subscribers. The first duty of a fiction writer is to read fiction widely, in order to avoid the hackneyed and the trite. Ask any magazine editor what kind of story he wants, and he will tell you, in effect, that he wants the story that is "different, " that is separated by something fresh and original — whether in plot, character, dialogue, or atmosphere — from the mediocre manuscripts that deserve nothing better than a printed rejection slip. Such originality does not mean, of course, a plot original in its entirety, for such plots were exhausted long ago. It means permutations and combinations of old material such as shall result in an impression of originality, especially at the close of the story — the place where, in short fiction, the real effect on the reader is almost invariably produced: in Maupassant's The Necklace, for example. 
Dr. Samuel Johnson declared, somewhat unjustly, that even Gulliver’s Travels reveals no striking originality of plot; that, granted the dwarfs and giants of the first two parts, everything follows as a matter of course. There is, however, nothing very like Gulliver in literature, especially in its last two parts; and that is the main thing; that is, to speak colloquially, 
"the Answer. " Nobody has succeeded in writing very much like Jonathan Swift; and few have had the temerity to try. That unforgettable picture of those luckless immortals, the Struldbrugs — as vivid, says Leslie Stephen, as anything in Dante or Milton —is alone enough to attest Swift's profound originality in the realm of the creative imagination. 
The originality of Shakespeare evidently did not lie in invention of plots, which he "lifted" with a royal hand, but in creation of characters — where, unlike so many popular novelists and short-story writers of to-day, he never repeats himself — and in associative imagination, in comparison by metaphor and simile. Scott's title to eminence now rests almost entirely upon his "colossal creative power. " Even Poe reveals inability to do more than a few things well — chiefly the horror story and the mystery tale. In the latter his invention and ingenuity are certainly noteworthy. 
Examples of essential originality in recent magazine stories by various authors might be multiplied; but a few will serve. John Taintor Foote's Opus 43, Number 6 1 turns upon a famous pianist's pretence of ignorance of his art — a pretence skillfully maintained in order that he may enjoy the company of the young girl whom he loves, by taking piano lessons from her. The revelation at the close is deftly managed and the total effect is highly pleasing. Yet there is no attempt at a completely original plot. What is revealed is simply a new "twist" in an old situation:
He moved across the room and stood uncertainly by the piano. 
"Lezzon? " he suggested timidly. 
Miss Hicks wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. She remained behind the table. 
"Where were you last night?" she inquired. 
The guilty Leopold grew scarlet. 
That restored her courage. He was not the old Scarecrow when he blushed —not the wonderful though mad being who turned a piano into a choir of heavenly voices. She came part way from behind the table. 
"Why have you been coming here?" she demanded. "Muzeek lessons, " he offered weakly. 
Miss Hicks laughed him to scorn. She withdrew altogether from the protection of the table and confronted him. 
"Music lessons — your grandmother!" she said. "I was at Carnegie Hall last night. Now, why have you been coming here?"
Leopold met her level glance and quailed to his marrow before it. He could deceive her no longer! Where was he to find words to tell her? It would have been a terrifying task in warm Hungarian. In his limping, contemptible English it was sacrilege to think of it. He looked in dumb hopelessness about the poor, dear and now familiar room. He was about to be swept out of it forever. His eyes came at last to the piano. They widened slowly. 
"Sect down!" he said with an imploring gesture. 
She did so, wondering. Leopold sank to the piano bench and gathered a great sheaf of golden notes in his hands. 
Outside, the plumber's washing danced in the cold March wind. Over the court wall Miss Hicks could see a bare and lonely tree. Its forlorn background was a wind-swept tenement house. 
She had one desolate glimpse of all this — then it was gone. . . . Rich meadows, velvet green, stretched on and on before her. Her nostrils were filled with the breath of newborn violets. Brooks laughed. Birds sang. Butterflies flashed in the sunlight. A million lovers met and kissed — for Leopold had called on the magic of the Scandinavian gentleman. 
Miss Hicks was stirred by nameless longings, sweet beyond words or thought. They made her heart flutter and surge. They filled her throat and eyes. 
And now the sun went down and a yellow moon hung above the breathless trees. . . . Leopold had done it. Technically he was improvising on the theme of Opus 43, Number 6. 
In reality Ile took Miss Hicks by the hand and led her to a moonlit glade. Then he whispered—whispered to her, while nightingales sang. He was no longer funny. . . . He was dear beyond all earthly things— her own! Her very own!
Suddenly black terror seized her — he was leaving — he was gone! . . . She looked up to see him standing by the piano, back in her own room. 
"Zat, deer von, " he said, "ees vy I kom!"
Miss Hicks raised one hand to her throat — tiny hammers were beating there. Her eyes were no longer frank and boyish. They had become deep pools of mystery. 
"I'm —glad — you — came!" she breathed, and flushed into a pink glory. 
Leopold discovered that his arms could do more than sweep from end to end of the keyboard. 
A similar new "twist" is visible in a powerful and moving tale by Henry C. Rowland, The Copy-Cat. 1Here a man of unusual strength but feeble courage, who has sunk to the level of a beachcomber, suddenly gains the necessary fortitude to win a fist fight by seeing his recently acquired dog snarl defiance at a former owner and their common enemy, a brutal sea captain. The animal, a thoroughbred, imparts the same quality to his new master. It is a vivid moment and the memory of it remains with the reader:
A sudden weakness sapped their life from Bill's great limbs. His knees tottered, his arms hung limp. He looked hopelessly at Matey, and then his hanging jaw
came slowly up and his eyes grew fixed and staring, while the swaying legs slowly stiffened and the big hands closed. 
For the dog, his first panic over, had pulled himself together — as Bill had tried to do, and failed. Now, as the man's eyes fell upon the hound, they read in the bulging muscles, bristling hair, and bared, glistening fangs, not fear, but rage and a savage and stubborn defiance. Even as Bill watched, Matey sprang forward in a series of short, stiff- legged bounds, then stood with his strong neck rigid, his bristling tail straight out — and as the captain, awed for the moment by the ferocity of the animal, paused, Matey filled his deep chest and roared out a booming defiance at his master's foes and his!
A fierce glow of exultation set Bill's pulses throbbing. In a flash the mantle of fear fell from him. He had needed only the impulse, the example, the suggestion, and Matey had furnished it, and again, as his clarion war-cry bugled forth, Bill felt a thrilling impulse to voice his own defiance in a roar that should rock the lofty palms. . . . 
The attack, when it came, was swift and terrible. With the scream of a panther, Bill leaped upon his foe. He was met by a crashing blow which glanced from the side of his head and flung him to the sand, but almost as he struck he was up again and had closed with another rush. This time the captain's blow fell short, and the next moment Bill's great hands had found the captain's throat and the huge, bony fingers sank into it until the sailor's breath came in whistling gasps. In vain he tried to tear loose the terrible grip. The tense, bulging muscles were like the weather shrouds of a ship. He struck out wildly, dealing short, heavy blows, and presently these
had their effect, for Bill loosed his hold and sprang clear again. But the captain's head was reeling and there were black flashes before his eyes. He tottered slightly, gasping for breath, and then the huge, springing figure was upon him again, this time as a human flail which dealt crushing, devitalizing blows on head and face and body, until the captain, groping and striking blindly, reeled, tottered and fell. 
It is probable that he might have lost his life beneath the terrible chastisement had there not come a diversion. Seeing the champion overthrown, the rabble began to stir and mutter as if forming for a concerted attack. The movement caught Bill's lurid eye, and in a transfiguration of Olympic wrath he whipped up a stake which was lying near and descended upon them. Fortunately, his cudgel was of no great dimensions or the mortality might have mounted high. As it was, all escaped alive, the burden of the punishment falling on the shipping agent, Mendoza. 
If in someone element a story is thus memorable through originality, that is enough. It will satisfy the reading public; and this means that it will satisfy the editor. A fiction magazine lives to please and must please in order to live. The editor merely feels the public pulse. "You can kill your magazine, " says a prominent editor, "by one poor issue. " If his circulation drops, he knows that his contributors' short stories have not shown enough freshness and
originality to induce readers to keep on buying his periodical at the news stands. The old- style millionaire's attitude, "the public be damned!" has nothing in common with the attitude of a successful editor. He must be a barometer of the changes in public taste and must alter his plans at the first symptom of those changes. 
In the best short stories of the day there is not only essential originality but also something more than brainless entertainment. There is a solid kernel of thought, often a big idea, back of the narrative. Such a short story is much more likely to deserve preservation in a volume than the "whipped syllabub" of the extremely light entertainer — the modern descendant of the Court Fool. A good short story must indeed be entertaining, but it may be something more without degenerating into a sermon or a treatise. In his early work, Henry James was entertaining, though in his later period he was an excellent example of how not to write fiction for popular consumption. Even what Matthew Arnold said of the Greeks is not inapplicable to the modern short story:
Their theory and practice alike; the admirable treatise of Aristotle, and the unrivalled works of their poets, 
exclaim with a thousand tongues — "All depends upon the subject; choose a fitting action, penetrate yourself with a feeling of its situations; this done, everything else will follow'
Ward Muir's Sunrise2furnishes an almost extraordinary illustration of this doctrine of the subject. A beautiful girl in China who, having lived always underground, has never seen the sun, is taken out of her surroundings by her lover, at night, and the next morning beholds her first sunrise. She believes that she has looked upon the very face of God; and the shock causes her death. She dies happy, however, though her lover is left distracted:
I raised my eyes from Kima's kneeling figure, and saw — the sun. 
It was a burnished ball, emerging, as I looked, from a bed of fog. Moment by moment it grew more distinct, more and more fiery. The clouds were furling off from it like ornate curtains drawn from before an immense and inconceivable furnace. Its rays were drinking the vapors from the abysses, like steam. And then I saw the sun as an Eye. 
I stood, staring and dizzy; and beside me I heard a movement. Kima had risen from her knees, and was standing too, confronting the sun. Her body was strung taut and quivering. The light, beating upon us ever brighter and brighter, was round her like a halo. 
"What is this?" The words burst from her in a cry of awe. "What is this?"
The sun swam clear of the clouds. Its full force rained upon us. And suddenly I heard Kima again:
"I must look I"
With a gesture at once sublime and despairing, she tore the bandage from her brow. 
was paralyzed. I knew — knew — that Kima was lost to me; but I could not move. 
She gazed, entranced, for one tremendous moment, full into the face of the sun, then fell on her knees, and in an abandonment of adulation prostrated herself to the ground, her hands outspread in abject reverence. . . . 
At last, with an effort that was pain, I bent down and touched her. 
She paid no heed. 
I tried to raise her. 
She was inert. She slipped sideways in my hands, and I saw her face. 
It was the face of one who had beheld in the firmament a radiance unimaginable. Its dazzling and calamitous grandeur had stricken her to the earth, and stunned her in her adoration of its peerless majesty. She had lifted up her eyes to the glistering portent of the risen sun; she had rested them upon that stupefying blaze; she had seen the light ineffable. She had looked upon the sun's magnificence, and the luster of its flaming was too dire to be borne. In that unendurable splendor she had thought she saw God. And, in the terror and bliss of that revelation, her soul had been set free. 
Kima was dead!
A strong contrast to this story, in subject, is to be seen in Freeman Tilden's satirical tale, The Defective, 1which turns upon a supposed defective's discovery that presumably sane people who were tango-mad, bridge-mad, and so forth, were in reality worse off mentally than he. In despair, he finally takes refuge again in the asylum from which he had been discharged as cured! The originality here lies quite as much in skilful treatment as in the subject. No outline can do justice to this uncommonly humorous tale. It has, in a high degree, both spontaneity and sophistication. 
Corra Harris' Justice 2is a story whose originality depends upon a powerful arraignment of the man-made equity of law-courts. A woman kills her husband, under circumstances such that she is acquitted — after being ably defended by a woman lawyer who intuitively divines all her wrongs and lays them before the jury. It is a suffrage story, and Mrs. Harris' thesis is: "Men are lawless, and always will be, to a certain limit which they determine themselves, and our system of law, which is fictitious, 
is the only one they'll stand, because it is fictitious!"
Gertrude Atherton's unusual and thrilling character study, The Sacrificial Altar, 1portrays an intellectual young novelist who is trying to inject some passion into his work. He fails to fall in love with a beautiful girl whom a friend has selected for him, but suddenly conceives the idea of stealing upon her in sleep, defying her scorn "for a few poignant moments" when she awakes, and then rushing forth, "repulsed and quite mad, to weep upon his floor until dawn!" When he sees her asleep, however, he does not feel any thrill. He is profoundly disappointed. Then he decides to give her a little fright. He places a pillow over her head, intending to release it quickly. But a madness of homicide seizes him. At last his emotional nature is aroused! He holds the pillow over the face of his victim and represses her struggles. After she is dead, he calmly returns to his rooms — and starts a novel, the best that he has written. When he has finished it, he confesses his crime to an intimate friend, who will not believe him. So, in expiation, he commits suicide in the tomb of his ancestors. In outline, 
A strong contrast to this story, in subject, is to be seen in Freeman Tilden's satirical tale, The Defective, 1which turns upon a supposed defective's discovery that presumably sane people who were tango-mad, bridge-mad, and so forth, were in reality worse off mentally than he. In despair, he finally takes refuge again in the asylum from which he had been discharged as cured! The originality here lies quite as much in skilful treatment as in the subject. No outline can do justice to this uncommonly humorous tale. It has, in a high degree, both spontaneity and sophistication. 
Corra Harris' Justice 2is a story whose originality depends upon a powerful arraignment of the man-made equity of law-courts. A woman kills her husband, under circumstances such that she is acquitted — after being ably defended by a woman lawyer who intuitively divines all her wrongs and lays them before the jury. It is a suffrage story, and Mrs. Harris' thesis is: "Men are lawless, and always will be, to a certain limit which they determine themselves, and our system of law, which is fictitious, 
is the only one they'll stand, because it is fictitious!"
Gertrude Atheiton's unusual and thrilling character study, The Sacrificial Altar, i portrays an intellectual young novelist who is trying to inject some passion into his work. He fails to fall in love with a beautiful girl whom a friend has selected for him, but suddenly conceives the idea of stealing upon her in sleep, defying her scorn "for a few poignant moments" when she awakes, and then rushing forth, "repulsed and quite mad, to weep upon his floor until dawn!" When he sees her asleep, however, he does not feel any thrill. He is profoundly disappointed. Then he decides to give her a little fright. He places a pillow over her head, intending to release it quickly. But a madness of homicide seizes him. At last his emotional nature is aroused! He holds the pillow over the face of his victim and represses her struggles. After she is dead, he calmly returns to his rooms — and starts a novel, the best that he has written. When he has finished it, he confesses his crime to an intimate friend, who will not believe him. So, in expiation, he commits suicide in the tomb of his ancestors. In outline, 
the tale does not sound plausible; but Mrs. Atherton's art in the complete story is fully adequate to her task. The originality lies in the psychology, in the portrayal of an eccentric but gifted artist nature seized by an obsession and hurried to tragic consequence. The depth and power of this story justify Mrs. Atherton's high place in American fiction. 
Kipling's tales are full of original ideas — William the Conqueror, The Man Who Would Be King, They, and so on almost ad libitum. A very suggestive title, which fully justifies itself, is William H. Hamby's A Big Idea in the Backwoods. 1The story grows out of the solution, by an alert young man — aided by the advice and encouragement of a pretty girl — of the problem of a bond issue authorized by three county court judges in Missouri but never paid for by the county. The promise of a railroad had been the lure — also a bribe to each of the three judges. The voters had declined to authorize the payment of either principal or interest, and the matter had dragged on for thirty years, the original amount, $400, 000, having been increased by the interest to $1, 500, 000. The alert young man went to New York, induced
the purchaser of the bonds to compromise for$400, 000, then announced to the county an offer of $500, 000, succeeded in winning enough votes at a special election — and thus made for himself the tidy sum of $100, 000 minus expenses. It was good business both for him and for the voters, since he had been able to show that refusal to settle, during the period of thirty years, had cost the county a loss of $7, 400, - 000 in farm values and $1, 600, 000 in business values. "A county, like an individual, " said the young financier, "cannot always go on notpaying its debts. The only way we have done it so far is by keeping our assessments so low we barely have money to carry on in a poor way the county's business. The only way we can hope to avoid it in the future is by remaining so poor there is no revenue left for the courts to seize. " So the voters bought back their self-respect. This is virtually a business article served up in entertaining fiction form. It is a type of story peculiarly characteristic of the Post and reflects our American absorption in commercial affairs. 
A very different sort of originality is shown in Joseph Conrad's notable mystery tale — for nearly everything that Mr. Conrad writes is
notable — The Shadow Line. ' A young captain takes charge of his first vessel. His initial feeling of joy, in which he thinks of the ship as an enchanted princess waiting for him to deliver her, gives place to some slight foreboding when he learns that the previous skipper died in strange circumstances and that the crew seem to be under some spell of fear. The impression which the chief mate leaves upon him is. powerfully indicated in the following passage:
Suddenly I perceived that there was another man in the saloon, standing a little on one side and looking intently at me. The chief mate. I was vexed and disconcerted. His long red mustache determined the character of his physiognomy, which struck me as pugnacious. 
How long had he been looking at me, appraising me in my unguarded day-dreaming state? I could not have been in that cabin more than two minutes altogether. Say three. . . . So he could not have been watching me more than a mere fraction of a minute, luckily. Still, I regretted the occurrence. But I showed nothing of it as I rose leisurely (it had to be leisurely) and greeted him with perfect friendliness. 
There was something reluctant and at the same time attentive in his bearing. His name was Burns. We left the saloon and went round the ship together. His face in the full light of day appeared very pale, meager, even haggard. Somehow I had a delicacy as to looking
too often at him; his eyes, on the contrary, seemed fairly glued on my face. They were greenish and had not much expression. 
He answered all my questions readily enough, but my ear seemed to catch a tone of unwillingness. . . . 
There was a sort of earnestness in the situation which began to make me feel uncomfortable. 
In this story, atmosphere and style count for much. Mr. Conrad, like Poe, has an almost hypnotic effect on his reader. The impression produced by his most somber masterpieces recalls Whitman's phrase, "the huge and thoughtful night. " They are quite unlike those of any other living writer — stamped with personality and with literary quality of the highest order. 
Such stories are not turned off every week, even by an expert. A short-story writer is fortunate if he gets three or four really big ideas for a tale in a year; his other stories, if he writes, say, one a month, will have to depend more upon execution than upon conception. The ambitious young writer should remember that, particularly during his first three or four years of apprenticeship, only his exceptional tales are likely to find editorial favor. Moreover, most authors under twenty- five years of age had better not be writing short stories at all — for magazine
publication. At one-and-twenty they can hardly have enough knowledge of life to produce worth-while fiction, can hardly have developed enough personality to be really individual — which, after all, is what it means to be original. Guy de Maupassant did not begin to publish until he was thirty. Kipling, an important exception, "broke into print" at twenty- three with Plain Tales from the Hills and, if one judges him by a single volume, reached his highest point as a short-story writer at twenty-six in Life's Handicap. Many a successful writer of short fiction — for example, Charles E. Van Loan — has not attained success until he was nearer forty than twenty. Mr. Van Loan was for many years a sporting editor on a newspaper, and his excellent baseball stories are an indirect result of that training. 
Just as many a minor poet is famous for a single poem, so many a short-story writer achieves fame by only a single tale. Edward Everett Hale's name is coupled with The Man Without a Country. In some cases this one story has perhaps contained the author's only truly original idea, his contribution to the none-too extensive list of stories that are "different. " Any reader who follows for several years every
issue of a highly popular magazine like the Saturday Evening Post will note that some writers appear frequently, others rarely, and still others only a single time. In the case of the authors who appear oftenest, a distinct falling-off in originality may every now and then be discerned. Irvin S. Cobb once started a series of mystery tales in the Post, with the scene in New York City, the general title of the series to bathe Island of Adventure. The first two tales went very well; but the series was cut off in its prime. Mr. Cobb ran out of ideas. He himself humorously said that it was because he knew too much about New York. Inventiveness cannot be forced; and it is only a real genius, like Kipling in his prime, who can be both highly prolific and highly original. The unevenness of the Sherlock Holmes tales is recognized by everybody save the blindest worshipper; and Arthur B. Reeve's ingenious tales of Craig Kennedy, "scientific detective, " creak audibly now and then in their machinery. 
From the standpoint of immediate popular success, there is, of course, such a thing as too much originality. Even Kipling and Conan Doyle bombarded editors in vain for more than
one year. Their daring imagination produced stories so individual that editors hardly knew what to make of them. ' The fact is that your editor is generally a timid creature. If he has convictions —and not always does he possess strong ones — he does not invariably have the courage of his convictions. He may be afflicted with what Saintsbury calls kaino phobia — fear of the new and strange. But Kipling, with the persistence of genius, finally made editors and book publishers see that tales of India, if sufficiently well written, were not anathema to the multitude; and when, after disappointing experiences with other kinds of stories, Conan Doyle got A Study in Scarlet, the first of the Sherlock Holmes series, accepted he instantly had the public at his feet. "It's dogged as does it. " In the Strand Magazine(October, 1915) a well-known author says of his early struggles:
As some slight encouragement to those writers who find their days of success somewhat tardy in arriving, I might mention that I was writing for five years and longer before I ever earned a dollar with my pen. I wrote continuously and determinedly, and though my stories came back to me with a promptness that was almost bewildering, I was not discouraged. I had made up my mind to be an author, and an author I knew I should become — one day. It is rather surprising that during the whole of those first five years I never received the faintest hint of encouragement. I just went doggedly ahead, and as soon as a manuscript came back I took it out of its wrapper, threw the inevitable rejection slip into the wastepaper basket, re-enveloped the story, and sent it on its travels once more. During those years I must have written hundreds of stories which I should have been very glad to have sold for a few dollars each. After I had achieved success I disposed of all those stories for very excellent sums. So the years of rejection were not so unprofitable after all. 
The writer who becomes downcast after a few rejections should find out how his betters, like Conan Doyle, fared during their apprenticeship. If he is sure he has talent, and not merely egotism (he can decide this by offering his manuscript for criticism to someone besides his intimate friends), let him persist; he will "arrive. " But it is only occasionally that an author, as in the case of Myra Kelly, has her first story accepted by an important magazine. Even decided originality must be supplemented by technique. 
Anyone who peruses carefully Horace Fish's vivid story of conscience, The Inward Empire, '
will perceive that its author possesses, for story purposes, too much imagination rather than too little. His task will evidently be to harness that imagination to editorial requirements. He is too fond of the psychic, of dwelling upon phantoms not dreamed of in the philosophy of the average magazine reader — who is not, after all, a very intellectual person. He or she is quite likely to be a shoe- clerk or a shop girl who never heard of Ibsen but knows a good deal about those naughty serials by Robert W. Chambers. But even such a reader is likely to enjoy a splendidly original story of action and "the bright face of danger, " such as Donn Byrne's Super dirigible "Gamma-I, " an imaginary episode of the European War. Suggestive of Kipling in its brilliant handling of technicalities and its vivid choice of words, it shows what a daringly original young writer can do when kindled by a congenial theme. The commander of an English dirigible similar to the German Zeppelins decides to bombard the railway station, bridge, and forts of Mainz by night. The Description of the trip and of the accomplishment of its object reveals an imagination and style which place the young
author far above an average magazine level. Its accuracy of detail and its astonishing vision of the possibilities of air warfare indicate talent which carries on a literary tradition and adds to it a distinct individuality and method. I quote a short passage which illustrates the author's fine use of comparisons:
The navigator swung over the river. Four thousand feet below, the bridge showed over the black ribbon of the Rhine like a plank over a rivulet. Meriwell watched it with the eye of a cat ready to spring on a mouse. . . . 
"Heave on!" he yelled suddenly. 
The dirigible lifted violently like a canoe struck by a great wave. There was a loud whirring in the air as the bombs dropped downward. Meriwell felt his heart jump to his mouth. He peered over the edge breathlessly, his hands gripping the rail with sudden fear. Mechanically he opened his mouth to protect his ear-drums from the report, and as he did a vast wave of orange flame, like discolored sheet lightning, seemed to flick along the river. For a moment, soundless, the river rose in its bed as if struck by a mighty hand. The great stone bridge disappeared as if kicked away. 
"My God!" said Meriwell hoarsely, "my God!"
Then suddenly noise struck him between the shoulder- blades, noise such as he could hardly believe possible — an infinitude of sound that rocked him like a crashing blow, a sound as of two planets meeting in mid-course, a gigantic forbidden thing, that only gods should make. 
"The bridge is gone, " said Meriwell stupidly. 
Among dozens of war stories read in manuscript and in current magazines by the present writer, this stands out as one of the two or three really powerful and memorable tales. It is the work of an artist rather than a mere journalist. Such young men may go far if they remain true to the traditions of Kipling and Stevenson and Hawthorne and Poe. 
Wait for an idea. That is the starting point of any good story. And it is quite as likely to come during a walk to the post office, or in a wakeful hour at night, or over the dessert and cigars, or (in the case of the ladies) during the powdering of a nose, as after much pondering and much knitting of brows. Having snatched the idea out of the reluctant ether, jot it down at once. It is often fatal not to have a notebook at hand. Like time and tide, plots wait for no man. "Be good and you will be lonesome, " reflected Mark Twain; and the chances are that he put it down in his little book — though I believe he never used it for a story. In his hands it would have made a hugely entertaining one. 
The peril of putting off is illustrated in the case of 0. Henry. In a conversation with Freeman Tilden one day, he said, "Sometime
I'm going to write a story about a boy spoiled by good influences. " He died before he carried out the resolution. So Mr. Tilden, borrowing merely this vague outline of a story idea, wrote it himself, ' with a racy originality that would have delighted the heart of 0. Henry. A young baseball hero whose mother supports him is induced by a fashionable lady "uplifter" of the village to take a regular job. What happens is tragi-comedy of the most entertaining sort. It is full of Mr. Tilden's personality and quite unlike anybody else. You may spell its originality with a capital0 and not be far wrong. Its kernel of Yankee philosophy is as solid and convincing as a league baseball. I quote two passages that illustrate the character drawing and the technique of the close:
Duff's father was a hard-working man His step-. father was a loafer. In some strange manner which the exponents of the theory of heredity will no doubt explain satisfactorily, Duff inherited from his stepfather rather than from his sire. At any rate, Duff was a born loafer. He was the kind of loafer that is prevented from working by sheer excess of vitality. He was the loafer premier of the neighborhood around Jackson Park. He was so utterly accomplished that, after a few misdirected attempts to seduce him from this occupation, the tradesmen and employers ceased to dream of him as a laboring factor. 
Nature had fitted Duff to be captain of the Rusty Dippers; or, in fact, leader in any unproductive diversion. 
Nature had not thought of Duff Cassidy as a useful, moral, or intellectual citizen. 
In his sphere, Duff was a constant and consummate success. Unless you realize this, you will not understand his downfall, which began on the last day of May, 1911, with the appearance of Mrs. de Ruyter in the vicinage of Jackson Park. 
The Rusty Dippers and Shiny Cups still play ball every pleasant afternoon in Jackson Park, but Duff Cassidy is not there. I think he is working for a grocer over on Hastings Street; that is, working sometimes. He has all the primitive vices, and some others; but he has lost all the primitive virtues. He does not loaf anymore; he does not know how; he does not dare to; he just sneaks a few minutes now and then furtively. He is ruined for life. 
I accuse nobody in particular of Duff's downfall. I suppose it may be attributed to chance. But I think it rather excessive, rather superfluous, for Mrs. de Ruyter to say, as she said when she returned from Europe and learned the facts:
"It's really too bad, after all I did for that young man. "
The art of this story, like most good art in satire, is a little over the head of the average subscriber to the Post; but it is a fair question whether there is not enough pure story interest, and humor as distinguished from satire, to hold even Mr. Average Subscriber. One of Mr. Tilden's stories, at any rate, was published in Collier’s, ’ which has a circulation of more than 800, 000. As Mark Twain and 0. Henry have proved, satire can be adapted to the average man; only, you must be cautious in handling it. Certainly you must beware of delicate irony. Defoe, who could write plainly enough when he wanted to — in Robinson Crusoe, for example — wrote a religious pamphlet, The Shortest Way with the Dissenters, so ironical that his political opponents took it for a serious argument in their favor. They were so enraged when they discovered the joke that one of their influential leaders had Defoe jailed for the offense. Some of the New York Nation's ironical editorials are nearly as difficult for the non- elect to understand. 
One of the highest kinds of originality — typified, in the novel, by Jane Austen and Thackeray and in the drama by many a realistic scene in Shakespeare — is that which gives an impression of real life by (apparently) treating common things in a common way. It is one of the most difficult of tasks and, when well done, one of the surest indications of genius. Burns did it supremely well in poetry. Crabbe, a contemporary, proved a dismal failure. His real life bores where that of Burns enchants. All ambitious story- writers would do well to read a good deal of Burns — and of various other modern poets likewise, such as Tennyson, Keats, Browning, and Wordsworth. It would stimulate their imagination and their ability to express emotion, as well as lend polish to their style; for good poetry is, as some critic has said, "the most perfect speech of man. " Many a successful writer has found the reading, for an hour or so, of a congenial author who is a little better than himself a useful preliminary to immediate composition. To a mind that has not a " self- starter " it often supplies a serviceable crank. But everyone to his own method. David Graham Phillips worked best standing at a high desk, like a bookkeeper; and he was highly individual in other respects. 
In a letter to the present writer Frank Goewey Jones, author of the Bigelow and Judkins stories in McClure's, modestly said that he couldn't
just see why editors wanted his tales, for they seemed to him to treat ordinary things in a very ordinary way. Ah! that is one of the great secrets of good writing — not to be too pretentious, not to attempt "fine writing" and ultra-romantic atmosphere. He who "sees life steadily and sees it whole" may tell what he sees, in very simple language, yet with profound effect. Something of this Mr. Jones has accomplished in his true-to-life stories of the stenographer, the office boy, and the self- important, irascible employer. Show us life as it is, people as they are, and you are always original; for no section of this absorbing human life of ours is quite like any other. When a writer stiffens into conventionalities, he is no longer rendering his own view of life. He has become a decadent. But so long as he avoids it — as Charles E. Van Loan and Booth Tarkington avoid it — editors will wear a path to his door. You will always find at least two or three claiming the honor of having first discovered an author who afterward attained fame —0. Henry, for example. 
Myra Kelly's stories of school children on New York's East Side have this loving fidelity to life, this treating common things in a corrosion of real life by (apparently) treating common things in a common way. It is one of the most difficult of tasks and, when well done, one of the surest indications of genius. Burns did it supremely well in poetry. Crabbe, a contemporary, proved a dismal failure. His real life bores where that of Burns enchants. All ambitious story- writers would do well to read a good deal of Burns —and of various other modern poets likewise, such as Tennyson, Keats, Browning, and Wordsworth. It would stimulate their imagination and their ability to express emotion, as well as lend polish to their style; for good poetry is, as some critic has said, "the most perfect speech of man. " Many a successful writer has found the reading, for an hour or so, of a congenial author who is a little better than himself a useful preliminary to immediate composition. To a mind that has not a " self- starter " it often supplies a serviceable crank. But everyone to his own method. David Graham Phillips worked best standing at a high desk, like a bookkeeper; and he was highly individual in other respects. 
In a letter to the present writer Frank Goewey Jones, author of the Bigelow and Judkins stories in McClure's, modestly said that he couldn't
just see why editors wanted his tales, for they seemed to him to treat ordinary things in a very ordinary way. Ah! that is one of the great secrets of good writing — not to be too pretentious, not to attempt "fine writing" and ultra-romantic atmosphere. He who "sees life steadily and sees it whole" may tell what he sees, in very simple language, yet with profound effect. Something of this Mr. Jones has accomplished in his true-to-life stories of the stenographer, the office boy, and the self- important, irascible employer. Show us life as it is, people as they are, and you are always original; for no section of this absorbing human life of ours is quite like any other. When a writer stiffens into conventionalities, he is no longer rendering his own view of life. He has become a decadent. But so long as he avoids it — as Charles E. Van Loan and Booth Tarkington avoid it — editors will wear a path to his door. You will always find at least two or three claiming the honor of having first discovered an author who afterward attained fame —0. Henry, for example. 
Myra Kelly's stories of school children on New York's East Side have this loving fidelity to life, this treating common things in a common way. There is selection, of course, and heightening of certain effects; but the impression is a true one. Really original realism is never purely photographic. Miss Kelly left out a good many uninteresting items in her daily routine; but she proved once for all that a teacher's life is not necessarily humdrum — that there are stories everywhere, crying to be written or waiting patiently for the seeing eye to observe them. 
One of the most imaginative of English poets says:
"Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, 
Stains the white radiance of eternity. "
And no one sees things uncolored by his own brain. If, conventionalized by school and college and by imitation of famous writers, the young story-teller loses the colors of his own vision of life, he loses originality. It is the strong man like Kipling who makes us revise our little pedantic code of literary rules to admit him to the circle of acknowledged masters of narration. Originality is a man asserting himself — completely, clearly, and convincingly. But it is something quite different from mere egotism, of which amateurs who send manuscripts to Harper’s or the Saturday Evening Post often have
more than enough. Having read, for certain magazines, a good many stories and the unconsciously humorous letters that accompany them, the present writer is prepared to support his assertion by documentary evidence. It is astonishing how many persons think it must be easy to write a story for the magazines, regardless of special training or special ability. A good ditch-digger is more to be honored than a poor story-writer. But persistence is a great virtue; and it must be confessed that sometimes a most unpromising tadpole later develops an extraordinary jump. 
Originality, at any rate, is not mere vaudeville cleverness, of which men capable of better things, like Irvin S. Cobb and Samuel G. Blythe, have given the public an unconscionable dose. Mr. Cobb in his war articles, however, has analyzed something more important than " tummies " and seasickness. Moreover, in his short stories he has never exhibited the straining after theatrical effect in phraseology which marks those anatomical articles. The difference between forced- draft humor of this sort and real art may be seen if one turns to the remarkable short stories of W. W. Jacobs. These have not only originality of the most indubitable
kind but also a deftness of method and of characterizing phrase, an economy of means and a compactness of effect that put to ghame the windy discursiveness of some of our American "journalese. " Mr. Jacobs reveals a trait of a character in a single stroke; and the whole character in an astonishingly small number of such strokes. Mr. George Horace Lorimer, editor of the Saturday Evening Post, has an admiration for W. W. Jacobs which some of his "star" contributors might well emulate. 
It is to be feared that something of this mere cleverness is due to the influence of 0. Henry. In too many of his tales he stands emphatically for feats of verbal and structural legerdemain, startlingly clever phraseology, akin to keeping a dozen glass balls in the air simultaneously. He is up to date in slang and colloquialisms; the mark of the ultra-modern is upon him — or was, at the time of his death. And his ingenuity is indeed bewildering. But such a method of attaining originality is as showy and vulgar as a second-grade chorus girl. Here is a fairly typical passage:
I suppose you know all about the stage and stage people. You've been touched with and by actors, and you read the newspaper criticisms and the jokes in the weeklies about the Rialto and the chorus girls and the longhaired tragedians. And I suppose that a condensed list of your ideas about the mysterious stage land would boil down to something like this:
Leading ladies have five husbands, paste diamonds, and figures no better than your own (madam) if they weren't padded. Chorus girls are inseparable from peroxide, PanharcLs and Pittsburgh. All shows walk back to Nei, York on tan oxford and railroad ties. '
We still have too much admiration for the juggler and trickster of literature. A short- story writer who can keep up a continuous vaudeville performance of astonishing feats often attains temporary popularity — just as does the horseplay of one Charles Chaplin in the "movies. " But in order to retain the respect of his public he must have something more than the virtues of the mountebank; he must have nature and sincerity. And 0. Henry generally had these. His faults of style do not obscure his searching analysis of human nature. Some of his little excerpts from life have a vividness and truth that call for the most cordial admiration. They hold the mirror up to nature. 
The moment, however, that a writer without 0. Henry's genius attempts to rival his eccentricities — for his virtues are inimitable —he
is likely to come to grief. A whole series of such imitations, by a fairly well-known author, came under the eye of the present writer in manuscript. They possessed a certain sparkle, but their attempt to convey the atmosphere of the Broadway "white-light district" just escaped success, because they were obviously "manufactured. " They did not ring true. One's criticism was, instinctively: "How hard he is trying to be clever!" But all his taking of thought failed to add one cubit to his literary stature. Moral:Don't imitate 0. Henry — or anybody else. 
The best advice ever given to a short-story writer was probably that which one great Frenchman, Flaubert, gave to another who was destined to become equally great, Guy de Maupassant:
Everything which one desires to express must be looked at with sufficient attention, and during a sufficiently long time, to discover in it some aspect which no one has as yet seen or described. In everything there
is still some spot unexplored, because we are accustomed only to use our eyes with the recollection of what others before us have thought on the subject which we contemplate. The smallest object contains something unknown. Find it. To describe a fire that flames, and a tree on the plain, look, keep looking, at that flame and that tree
]
until in your eyes they have lost all resemblance to any other tree or any other fire. 
This is the way to become original. . . . 
When you pass a grocer seated at his shop door, a janitor smoking his pipe, a stand of hackney coaches, show me that grocer and that janitor — their attitude, their whole physical appearance —embracing likewise, as indicated by the skillfulness of the picture, their whole moral nature; so that I cannot confound them with any other grocer or any other janitor. Make me see, in one word, that a certain cab horse does not resemble the fifty others that follow or precede it. 
He who has learned to individualize in this fashion has exhibited not only talent but also a capacity for hard work. The apprenticeship of the average shod-story writer who attains success is a long one —two or three years at best. During this period, however, he may sell a number of stories to minor magazines whose circulation and rate of payment are small. It is often quite possible to earn while you learn. A certain author's barren period of five years is not typical — unless one begins, as he perhaps did, at an extremely early age. There are more than seventy American periodicals that print fiction; and most of them are eagerly looking for new writers. In such conditions no real talent can long remain undiscovered. 
In the fiction world of to-day there are no mute, inglorious Kiplings. Everybody has a chance. In most magazine offices all manuscripts are read carefully enough to make sure that nothing of merit is sent back without a word of encouragement. It must be remembered, however, that not even an editor can squeeze more than twenty-four hours out of a day; and he must therefore devote his attention to promising material only. After you have had a few stories printed, you will generally find it easy to get an interview with almost any editor and to secure suggestions from him—particularly as to the policies of his own magazine. 
It is astonishing, by the way, that the same public which demands originality in the short story and the novel should tolerate the trite and commonplace melodrama served up to it in motion pictures. Better films are gradually being offered — some at regular theater prices — but so far the "movies" are little more than a return to the infancy of the English drama in the Middle Ages. There is the same crude plot, the same crude horseplay. A good short- story writer may easily ruin his inventiveness and technique by devoting himself to writing motion-picture scenarios for a few months. 
The present writer knows of one such case. On the other hand, the more novels and short stories — provided they are highly original —are turned into motion pictures, the better for the future of this still somewhat doubtful field. 
Often the originality of a short-story writer is shown by his choice of a fit and striking title. In many cases, however, it is the editor who, in newspaper fashion, hits upon the best "headline" to attract his public. The finest stories do not need ultra-clever or pretentious titles — simply something that is a true index to the theme and that awakens some curiosity. The Red-Headed League, one of the Sherlock Holmes tales, fulfils these requirements; and so does its companion, The Adventure of the Speckled Band, a remarkably dramatic and original piece of craftsmanship. The Three Godfathers, by Peter B. Kyne, is simple and satisfying. Edna Ferber's amusing and penetrating story of hotel atmosphere in a large city, The Hooker-up-the Back, is unusually well introduced by its title. So also is The Queen of the Graveyard Ghouls, by Barry Benefield, a humorous-sentimental love tale which found a place in The Ladies' Home Journal. Fannie Hurst's "T. B. , " a happy-ending story of a young girl threatened
with tuberculosis, is striking but of questionable drawing power. Attempts at mere cleverness in titles are found more frequently in the minor magazines, where it sometimes seems necessary to bolster up a mediocre tale by a " snappy " title. It is related, by the way, that a book publisher once asked an author to write a "bright, snappy life of Jesus!" The volume, however, was never penned. 
Kipling often manifests real genius in a title. They is perhaps too vague, but at any rate it provokes curiosity. So also does . 007. The Brushwood Boy is highly original. The Man Who Would Be King is less striking but entirely adequate. In articles, quite as much as in fiction, moreover, the good title commends itself. Compare, for example, Permanent Soil Fertility with The Farm That Won't Wear Out. Titles are much more journalistic nowadays than in the period of Hawthorne and Poe. A sensation-loving editor would be pretty sure to change Rappaccini's Daughter to something like The Poisoner's Daughter. But of course the best title in the world can do no more than introduce a story. It must make its way on sheer merit. The somewhat puerile fashion of prefacing a tale by an editorial note of explanation and
praise — aptly called a " blurb " by Gelett Burgess — has little to recommend it. It insults the intelligence of the better class of readers and is of doubtful aid even to the other class. 
The man who really has something to say — this is the man for whom the world is always looking, whether in short story, novel, article, sermon, or social prophecy. Commonplace folk need the few pioneers to do their thinking and inventing for them. It may be Kipling in fiction, Edison in electricity, Darwin in evolution; but in all cases it is originality which is honored; it is the man of imagination who leads the van — "and by the vision splendid is on his way attended. "
EXERCISES
Make an outline of the plot of Conan Doyle's The Red-Headed League (in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes) in order to study the original elements in it. Are there any improbabilities in this story? In The Adventure of the Speckled Band? Are these improbabilities, if present, likely to affect the enjoyment of the average reader?
Kipling's They (in Traffics and Discoveries) is highly original in many respects. It is a good test of a student's ability to understand in full an obscure but masterly story. Write such an outline as will show what the tale means to you. Mention any details or main elements
which you fail to comprehend. Why would the Saturday Evening Post probably refuse such a story?
The cleverness of Stockton's The Lady, or the Tiger? (in Sherman's A Book of Short Stories) lies chiefly in the problematic ending. Set down the reasons for each of the two solutions proposed. Are we told enough about the character of the princess to enable us to guess what she would probably do? Is a problem-close used in any contemporary magazine stories which you have read?
Hawthome's The Birthmark (in Jessup and Canby’s The Book of the Short Story) is original and pleasing; but it is in several respects old- fashioned. Show why it is unlike most present-day stories. Is the didactic element strong in modern magazine stories? What magazines favor it, if any? Compare The Birthmark with Kipling's Without Benefit of Clergy (in The Book of the Short Story) with respect to didacticism. 
Dickens' A Christmas Carol (in Cody's The World's Greatest Short Stories) evidently did not gain its success by originality. Write a brief appreciation of this story which will show its elements of popular appeal. What is generally required in a Christmas story which is not so often present in others? Some magazines no longer print typical "Christmas stories, " the editors declaring that their sophisticated readers find such tales too elementary. 
Mary Wilkins-Freeman's The Revolt of "Mother" (in Mikels' Short Stories for High Schools) is an example of an uneventful life lighted up for a moment by an unusual act of daring. Test this for plausibility and
compare it with The Adventure of the Speckled Band, both in this respect and in any others which occur to you. 
Katharine Fullerton Gerould's Vain Oblations(in the volume bearing that title) has much more plot and much more originality of plot than most of her stories. Outline this and compare it with a similar outline of any other tale from this volume. Generally Mrs. Gerould depends too much upon subtle and complex delineation of character without any strong plot effect. Hence her stories do not appear in the magazines of largest circulation, which demand that something shall happen. Her originality lies mainly in her psychology. She is not a good model for young writers who wish to sell stories to the average magazine. 
Point out, among ten stories in current periodicals, the one that you consider most original, and tell why. Give some indication of the plot of the one that seems least original. 
In O'Brien's The Best Short Stories of 1915, which tales are founded on a really worth-while idea? And what, in each case, is the idea? Are there any stories in this volume which seem to rely upon skilful treatment rather than upon any genuine originality of subject? (Mr. O'Brien's selections, for various reasons, do not constitute a list of the best short fiction of 1915; but the volume is useful, nevertheless. )
Briefly describe, in H. G. Wells' volume, Thirty Strange Stories, three that are too daringly original to be acceptable to a periodical of large circulation, whose readers are for the most part commonplace people. (You
can find, also, one or two such tales in almost any of Kipling's volumes. )
Find one story in a current magazine which shows the vaudeville cleverness popularized by 0. Henry — a sort of vulgar "smartness" which, in his case, was generally redeemed by worthier qualities. Look first in the periodicals of largest circulation. 
Find five story-titles in Scribner's, the Saturday Evening Post, the Metropolitan, or other magazines, which seem to you to show unusual skill and fitness; and tell why. 
Which of the following stories contains the most original character? The most original plot? The most unusual setting? And which seems to you the best story? — Kipling's The Man Who Would Be King, Balzac's A Passion in the Desert, Poe’s The Masque of the Red Death, Hawthorne's The Minister's Black Veil, Stevenson's Will o' the Mill, Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. 
Compare the stories in an issue of Harper's with those in an issue of the All-Story Weekly with respect to the kind of originality shown. 
15. Among recent magazine tales which you have read, describe one that best illustrates Flaubert's statement: "The smallest object contains something unknown. " (Many seemingly trivial incidents become important when handled by a real artist. )