W. T. PERSON
LAKE VILLAGE
ARKANSAS

May 6, 1937

Mr. Robert Penn Warren
Southern Review
Baton Rouge, La.

Dear Mr. Warren:

Last night, I wrote you a letter asking for a report on "De Come-Backin' Niggah", which I had mailed to you on March 16. This morning, the script came home. Which strikes me as something in the nature of a coincidence.

I say I wrote you for a report, but I mean, rather, that I wrote to learn whether you still had the story, or if you received it at all. When things are out to markets I've never tried before, and stay more than a month, I begin wondering if they're lost, or what. You probably know how that is.

I wish to thank you for your letter of rejection. Your words: "We, too, think the story is good..." are full compensation for the postage I spent. Yes, the handling of the tale in straight dialect makes it hard for a great many readers...you use the word "self-defeating".

On re-reading the piece with a view toward putting it into more usual form, I find that it can be done, with here and there a passage of dialect. It may lose something in atmosphere, but it will gain more in general effectiveness, I believe. At

Lake Village, Arkansas

August 12, 1937

Editors of _The Southern Review_
L.S.U.
Baton Rouge, La.

Dear Sirs:

My files show that on June I mailed you a story entitled "To Grandpa, In Memoriam". Since more than two months have elapsed without bringing me a report on this offering, I am writing to ask if you received it. If it did reach you, have you returned it?

Of course, if you still have the ms., that's fine. But I would like to know that you have it. On one or two occasions I've had stories lost in the mails and have waited and waited, my hopes increasing daily. The let-down that comes when a fellow discovers that the story was lost instead of being under editorial consideration is something dreadful. I try to avoid it by writing letters like this when a piece stays out over-long.

If "To Grandpa, In Memoriam" is under consideration, please keep it that way just as long as your conscience will permit. But if you did not receive it, or if you've already returned it, I'd like to know about that.

With best wishes, I am

Lake Village, Arkansas

August 20, 1937

Mr. Cleanthe Brooks, Jr.
Southern Review
Baton Rouge, La.

Dear Mr. Brooks:

You are not at all presumptuous in offering me
a suggestion on how to improve my technique in fiction. As a
matter of fact, you are helpful and kind to take the trouble
to point out a weakness and suggest its remedy. Editors who
are interested to the point of writing me would top my list
of "The World's Finest", if I kept such a list. Let me say here
that I am sincerely grateful for your letter in its entirety.
In several years of attempting to write fiction, with no success
beyond the juvenile field, yours is the most encouraging analysis
I've ever had.

Of course, it is always rather discouraging to get a story
back, particularly one that has had serious consideration; but,
having re-read "To Grandpa: In Memoriam", I believe I understand
why you found the plot a bit burdensome. And I believe that I
can revise the tale so that this fault will be cleared up. (I
warn you now that I'm a persistent soft of fellow, a die-hard;
if I weren't, the three stories I've sent you to date would
never have been written, for I'd have quit trying long ago and
found a ditch to dig, or something.) I take it that you would
not object to seeing the story again in another form.

In Sunday's Commercial Appeal there was an article dealing
with the current issue of The Southern Review, with some atten-
tion given to contributions by Allen Tate and Sam Monk. Two
points of coincidence struck me, in view of the fact that I
then had some hope that my story would make the grade with
The Southern Review: Monk and I were students at Southwestern
some years ago...and he, with his terse, crystal clear
analyses, consistently beat me in Comp. Lit. (But I could ruin
him in checkers!) Monk has gone far since those days. Last
summer, during a particularly grim period of down-and-outness,
I worked with a brother of mine in Memphis, in his grocery
store. One of our customers was Allen Tate, who had taught
in Southwestern during the preceding winter. His wife, Carol-
ing Gordon, was at the time writing her "None Shall Look Back".
Living on Forrest Avenue, writing about General Forrest. I
remember one rainy afternoon when Monk and Tate came by the
store, Tate coming in for something or other, Monk remaining
in the car. Feeling that a long white grocer's apron was not
an appropriate follow-up to solemn cap and gown, I remained
out of Monk's sight on that occasion, finding it convenient to

repair to the stock-room and work at length over the compli-
cated task of cutting off some bananas to bring up front.
When they had gone, I mentioned to Ray, my brother(who, indi-
dentally, died of infantile paralysis in July of this summer.
so fine and helpful and clean and swell in every way) that
Tate was getting to be quite a fellow in the realm of letters.
Ray, always practical, said: "I wish to heaven he could keep
his bank balance straight!"

"Rubber in his checks?" I asked, surprised.

"They often bounce back," he answered, "but he makes them
good. It's unintentional, I'm sure, his overdrawing. But I
guess he pays more attention to those essays he writes than he
does to his bank book." One a grocer; one an artist. Both good.

But forgave me for such rambling. The fact is that writers,
as well as writing, interest me.

I, too, thought the top of page 13 pretty good, but feared
that it was because I had written it. Your singling out the
little description of the grave, "the white ends of the shovel-
cut roots dotting the sides of the grave", gratifies me and
makes me feel that my own judgment, for once at least, was not
bad. And I thank you, too, for "your very powerful and effective
detail". Presumptuous? Man, after that, you could have called
me a fool in nine languages and I would have still had a warm
place in my heart for you!

I'm glad that you liked "Tears Are Salty" well enough to
send it on to Mr. Warren for further consideration. If he
turns thumbs down on that one, I'll still think it a good
story for some market That's the rub! MARKET! Who wants what,
and why? If the beginner with any talent could get at the
bottom of that intricate question sooner, he would be spared
years of rejections and bitterness.

I mentioned juveniles above. After some years of trying
to make the difficult slicks, I began feeling out the little
magazines, the church-school papers, as they're called. Started
out to make them in earnest last fall, and since then have sold
about forty stories in the field, my main market being Cook, the
bigges t outfit in the field. have three series running in
bays' magazines, dealing with the same characters...or I shuudd
say, three character-series running. Low rates(Cook pays 1¢,
though), but most of the publications are weekly, which takes
a lot of material; so it's an active field. Making almost a
living out of it, and hope to do better as I get into it more...
with my eyes always on the better markets. I've sold the out-
door magazines, Field And Stream, Outdoor Life, Sports Afield;
I've sold two confessions to MacFadden(yes, I'll admit it!) I've
sold Blue Book a Real Experience piece. Then the juveniles. And
that just about summarizes me up to date. I mention these
things solely because you said you were interested in my writing,
and because I feel that you've a right to know what kind of
people you're interested in.

Assuring you again that I appreciate your letter...and at
the same time offering apology for this one, I am

Lake Village, Arkansas

September 28, 1937

Mr. Robert Penn Warren
The Southern Review
L.S.U.
Baton Rouge, La.

Dear Mr. Warren:

This is the Negro story I mentioned in my letter
with "Wild Honey". Getting it in shape (if it's in shape!
wasn't as big a job as I thought. It was mainly a task of
cutting out about 1000 words and re-typing.

When I first wrote this "Mourn Drum Mourn", I thought
I had something. Jacques Chambrun, the agent, who was handling
some stuff for me at the time, called it "definite quality",
but he pointed out that markets for this type of thing are
difficult. He was awfully right! I tried here and there,
mainly in the "slicks", but had no luck with it. Then I shelved
it. Your request for more of my stuff reminded me of it. And
here it is.

When I was a kid, living in North Mississippi, the Negroes
of our section had a custom of beating a drum to tell of the
death of one of their number. The more important that corpse,
the longer and louder the drum seemed to beat...or so it
seemed to my childish imagination. Since then, I've asked
a good many people from various parts of the South if they
have known of this noisy rite. All but one said no. Elmer
Ransom, the writer, informs me that Negroes in a certain
section of South Carolina do this, and that it is called
"Walking the bones". I think it's quite interesting. (Some
years ago, I wrote what I was pleased to call a poem on this
theme. I sent it to a little old market called Harper's. Ed-
itor returned it, but wrote that the custom was very in-
teresting and suggested that I get him up an article on it.
But I was so incensed by the rejection of the poem...which
was, by gosh, one of the finest things ever writ...that I
just ignored his letter. As I say, that was several years
ago. I know a lot more about magazines than I did then. I'd
jump at a chance to get into Harper's today...as who wouldn't?
)

Originally, this story was terribly over-written. It may
be yet. You'll know about that. But I tried something in
it that I think should be done in this type of Negro tale:
I tried to get some of the rhythm that is so essentially a
part of the Negroes life. May not have it. Once I thought I
did. You'll know about that, too.

18

Lake Village, Arkansas

Sept. 28, 1937

Mr. Robert Penn Warren
The Southern Review
Baton Rouge, La.

Dear Mr. Warren:

Your letter came this morning. The sight of it excited me: Here was news that "Tears Are Salty" had been accepted! The long-awaited news! (You know how eagerly a fellow awaits such news.) But, no, not yet...and my volatile spirits settled back to low tide again.

I shall be glad for you to hold "Tears Are Salty" as long as you wish before you make a final decision. And I am very glad you wrote, for I had begun to fear the script was lost. I live on a rural route. The regular carrier has been on vacation for a month, and his substitute is not thought to be as careful as he should be. It is a relief to know that you still have the story.

You asked me to send something else. With certain misgivings, I am passing "Wild Honey" on to you. It may be too strong for The Southern Review. It may not be up to your standard, too. Of course, I like the story and think it worth a bit of printer's ink, else I wouldn't send it. But my liking for it may come out of my familiarity with the hill-billy vs. plantation-mangger set-up. Hill-billies poured into this section during the depression. They have proved, in many instances, quite objectionable as tenants. However, the story of Pres Laws doesn't come altogether out of that.

The three stories I've sent you: "De Come-Backin' Niggah", "To Grandpa: In Memoriam", and "Tears Are Salty" are, I believe, the best that I have. That may be wrong; I don't know. Writers... and I mean those who want to be writers, too. Notoriously these... are not equipped to see their stuff objectively and weigh its merits fairly. Maybe "Wild Honey" is my best. You tell me. Be quite frank about it, if you wish.

I've another story that I'll start getting into shape for you as soon as I finish this letter. A Negro story that I want your reaction on. You'll be seeing it in a few days.

Thanking you for your continued interest in my pieces,
I remain

Lake Village, Arkansas

December 30, 1937

Mr. Robert Penn Warren
Editor of _The Southern Review_
L.S.U.
Baton Rouge, Louisiana

Dear Mr. Warren:

I've been wondering of late about "Tears Are Salty", which has been with you since about the middle of July. You wrote me in late September, saying that you would like to hold the story a little longer before coming to a final decision. I have not heard from you since then.

The purpose of this letter is not to hasten your decision, but to learn whether or not you've returned the story. It is possible for manuscripts to go astray in the mails, and if that has happened in this case I should like to know about it. You understand that, of course...and you understand, too, how gnawing suspense becomes after so long a time!

If you wish to hold "Tears Are Salty" for further decision, that suits me; but I should like very much to know that you still have it.

By the way, let me congratulate you on having a story included in the O. Henry collection. I don't happen to have the book, but have seen one or two references to it.

With the hope that your Christmas was pleasant and that '38 will be a whopper for you, I remain

P.S. Please give Mr. Brooks my best regards.

Lake Village, Arkansas

January 10, 1938

Mr. Robert Penn Warren
The Southern Review
Baton Rouge, Louisiana

Dear Mr. Warren:

"Tears Are Salty" came back this morning. I want to thank you for your kind letter which accompanied it and for your expression of continued interest both in this story and in my work in general.

I don't know just when I'll have another burst of optimism and attempt a revision of "Tears Are Salty". Before going to you, the story had been through several revisions during the period when I was stubbornly trying to sell it. Then I laid it aside for a time before getting it out again and working it over in the hope that it would fit Southern Review. Originally, it ran about 6000 words and was terribly over-written. The gradual condensation of it is a sort of summary of what I call, in a grimly humorous way, my "development as a writer". And now it has come home again, its head bowed and bloody; and so is mine insofar as quality markets are concerned.

No, I've nothing else that would interest you. Some weeks ago, in response to your question on the subject of other material that I might have, I sent you two stories, "Wild Honey" and "Mourn, Drum, Mourn". Both came back with form slips, and with alarming promptness, further convincing me that I had better quit trying to place material with the keenly selective quality markets. Since my only income is from writing, I must choose the practical way and write fiction that will bring checks with which I can pay bills. It is a fact that I prefer to write stories like "To Grandpa-In Memoriam"(my last attempt at a good story, and one that brought from Mr. Brooks a letter that I treasure), and "De Come-Backin' Niggah"(on which you gave me a good word), and "Tears Are Salty". But they don't sell. They are what I call will-o'-the-wisps. I'm selling steadily in the juvenile field. The checks aren't large, but enough of them add up to what might be loosely termed a living. Between the fall of '36, when I began writing this kind of fiction steadily, and the fall of '37, I sold about 50 stories; 48, to be exact. Since the middle of November, I've sold about 10 more. Although I know this information is quite beside the point and of little interest to you, I offer it as a means of explaining why I feel it rather a waste of time to do stories that are dreadfully hard to sell. I can't doubt that there are definite rewards to such writing, for I know that a great many people profit by it; but each man to his own anvil, I guess, would sum the situation up quite tersely.

Lake Village, Arkansas

January 23, 1938

Mr. Robert Penn Warren
Editor of THE SOUTHERN REVIEW
Baton Rouge, Louisiana

Dear Mr. Warren:

Your note of the 19th is a kind and encouraging
reply to my last letter, which was written too soon after
the rejection of "Tears Are Salty". Thank you for it. I hope
to get another version of the story back to you in time for
consideration for an early issue.

It seems to me that a revision of the end of the tale
should arrange for a note of cheer there. As it stands, the
future is perhaps too drab even for Sarah Boyd, whose whole
life has been drab. Perhaps after she goes to bed in the
little room, with the restless children, with her father
snoring endlessly beyond the thin wall, she begins to miss
Harve a little. She can't go to sleep for some time; the
suggestion is that she is a little sorry for what she has
done. It might be built up in about two hundred words, so
that Harve's arrival really pleases her...for she knows
that he missed her, too. Although she makes no confession
to Harve that she feels this way, the reader would know it,
and might be a little better satisfied. I don't know whether
this would improve the story for THE SOUTHERN REVIEW readers
or not; it would for some, of course. I make this suggestion
of revision out of thin air, so to speak. After I got into
it, I might find the psychology of it bad. I don't know.

Incidentally, I've never seen a copy of your REVIEW.
If you've a late one lying around handy, please send it to
me. I'll mail the price of it in return.

Assuring you again that I do appreciate your interest,
I remain