Part 23

“When at last Craig returned home, however, she greeted him with manifestations of greatest pleasure; and Craig himself, when I met him on the street two days after his arrival, seemed radiantly happy. He had reason to be; he had wealth, occupation, strength and the love of the woman whom he loved. He probably thought himself, and he certainly seemed to me, one of the favored ones of the world.

“It was in all probability on the evening of this day that he first thought of the flask, and then it dawned on him quite suddenly that his wife had not spoken of it. His joke, of course, had failed, because if she had seen the flask during his absence, he would long since have heard something of it. Still, he would get it out and make what he could of the change that had come over it.

“‘Amy,’ he said, ‘we have forgotten to look at the flask.’ He watched her closely, but her face did not change. She did not even show the slight surprise that might have been expected at his sudden introduction of the subject.

“‘So we have,’ she answered. She smiled slightly. ‘If you think an inspection necessary, will you get it?’ She was so ready that it seemed almost as if she had been waiting for his suggestion; but he did not notice this--at the time.

“He walked across the room, already smiling as he thought of the surprise in store for her. Still smiling he reached down into the vacant space behind the books until he found the flask, then turned and held it to the light....

“That was a year ago.

“The next day Craig went to Canada. He did not return until his wife had sailed for Europe. She is still there, and Craig is--as you saw him.”

Drysdale stopped.

“But what was the matter? What was wrong?” exclaimed young Gwillam. “What--”

Drysdale interrupted him.

“You see,” he said, “when he looked at the flask that night, it had once more been filled with a perfectly clear and transparent liquid.”

WHY THE EDITORS BUY

ADVENTURE

As _Adventure_ readers include the cultured and critical as well as those of simple tastes, we seek the kind of workmanship that will stand the difficult test of meeting the approval of both groups. But in selecting our fiction it always seems to us that only that part of the story is effective that reaches the reader’s mind and the highest literary attainment is likely to go hand in hand with simplicity and clearness.

We regard it as vitally important that the illusion should be kept up. We want the reader to leave his own world and to live entirely in the world of the story. For this reason we dislike too pronounced mannerisms of style, too unusual names for characters, misstatements in local color, improbability in plot details. We also wish that the author would avoid the obtrusion of his own personality into the story, too much surface cleverness, the specific call upon the reader to philosophize (thus making him think, rather than keeping him in the receptive mood), a too cynical or sophisticated attitude on the author’s part. In general the two points--clearness and keeping the illusion--are probably those which we emphasize most particularly. We have in addition certain types of story that we try to avoid:--those that involve international or political questions; we dislike stories of opium smuggling; stories in which _all_ of the main characters are “natives”; stories which feature intermarriage. Generally speaking, we do not care much for a villain in the rôle of central character; nor for much high society atmosphere; millionaire circles; prisons; slums; lost wills; psychopathic cases; gangsters. Of course exceptions to all of the above sometimes force themselves upon us by sheer merit.

We do not insist upon the accepted idea of the “happy ending” but we prefer stories that uplift rather than depress. We consider only the net effect of the story on the reader for the man or woman who is reading a magazine, is doing so, primarily with the idea of enjoying or relaxing, not to be made uncomfortable or unhappy. However, a story to sell to _Adventure_ need not be artificially shaped. We are looking for stories that will please our readers and the range of selection is wide indeed.

ARTHUR S. HOFFMAN.

_Adventure._ THE RIDGEWAY COMPANY, Publishers, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City.

THE AMERICAN MAGAZINE

In buying a story for _The American Magazine_ I have four leading questions in mind:

1. Is it interesting? 2. Is it true? 3. Does it add to our store of knowledge of human nature? 4. Is there a lift to it?

Not all four requirements are always met in the stories I take but they are the main guide-posts. Let me take these questions in their order and be more detailed and explicit concerning each one.

If a story isn’t interesting, or has a very limited field of interest, no matter how well written it is, I cannot use it in _The American Magazine_. And the interest must not be sporadic, it must be cumulative in its effect. A story should grip the reader’s attention at the beginning and hold it steadily all the way through. Good progressive writing is far more effective than that which contains a number of thrills linked together by long, arid paragraphs.

In asking myself--is it true?--I do not intend to convey the meaning that I am looking for stories of real happenings. As a matter of fact, I am of the opinion that fiction doesn’t dare be as wild and exciting as real life. As Byron wisely said, “Truth is always strange--stranger than fiction.” Consequently I look for stories that _ring_ true, the characters in which have their counterparts in everyday life or are so vividly created by the writer that they are accepted by the reader as natural, even if unusual, human beings. In the making of a plot I want sanity enthroned, the believable things of life depicted; not cock and bull fakes, which although they may create momentary excitement will cause the reader to lay the story down and say, “It’s all right, but it’s highly colored and far-fetched.” I would infinitely rather have less excitement, fewer dramatic pyrotechnics and have the reader slap his knee and exclaim, “Can you beat that for the real thing!” I want him to corroborate and testify to the convincingness and obvious truth of the story out of his own experiences and observations or through the instinctive acceptance of it by his imagination.

I hope, however, from the foregoing words writers will not run away with the idea that so long as the characters are lifelike a story will get across. The ideal story for this magazine is one that has a convincing plot as well as convincing characters. But I would rather sacrifice plot to characterization any day of the week. If a story comes into the office slender of plot but brimful of human wisdom and accurate character work, I buy it. As a matter of fact, some of the most successful stories I have published have been of this type. I do not, however, buy a story that is strong on plot if the characters are overdrawn or unnatural and it has an atmosphere of unreality.

This brings me to my third question: “Does it add to our store of knowledge of human nature?” If the people in a story are natural, if they meet problems with sense of humor, if their actions are interestingly sane and normal, and the story presents news of human nature wisely and accurately, the reader can scarcely avoid learning something to his advantage. His sympathy and imagination are going to be aroused and quickened only by stories that are probable in both character and plot, because they alone will give him a true slant on human nature and add to his understanding of it.

In commenting on the last question, I feel I cannot too strongly emphasize the need of the quality which I define as “lift.” A story may be surpassingly true, the characterization good, the plot well thought out, but if it does not stir the emotion, if it doesn’t make the reader feel better, I am not keen for it. I want cheerful stories that leave a sense of satisfaction in their wake--stories that are full of warmth, charm, friendliness, and right living. Highly colored, far-fetched or gloomy fiction may interest for a moment, but it will not yield genuine and lasting pleasure. I avoid unpleasantly tragic and morbid stories, no matter how well written, because they usually leave a distinct effect of depression. The reader has to recover from them; climb painfully back to a normal belief in human kind. I must have stories that touch the heart as well as appeal to the intellect. They must satisfy the reader and leave him with the feeling of time well spent.

In dividing my answer to your question into definite heads I see that these overlap each other and that consequently my explanations do the same in a measure. But at least they are not contradictory, and I hope the cumulative effect makes my practice clear. You realize much must be left out of an attempt to set down briefly an editorial policy relating to so wide and varied a literary field as that of fiction.

JOHN M. SIDDALL.

_The American Magazine._ THE CROWELL PUBLISHING CO., 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.

THE AMERICAN BOY

The _American Boy_ aims to interest and help boys between the ages of twelve and twenty, recognizing the fact that to be helpful to the boy it is necessary first to secure his interest and command his attention. Stories and articles should be of such literary quality as will inculcate the best literary standards in the boy reader, as well as interest him and have an effective message. The atmosphere must be wholesome, alive, vigorous, and inspiring, and stories should be a force for good, not repelling the boy reader by too obvious moralizing, but implying the moral by the characters and the action. The magazine endeavors to put before its boys, through the medium of stories, boy heroes who can set them fine examples; in business stories, it endeavors to inculcate the principles of good business; in athletic stories, it sets forth high athletic ideals.

The _American Boy_ is always particularly careful in the presentation of facts. Stories and articles should always teach truth. Fiction stories, of course, need not be true stories--stories of actual facts--but they should give accurate pictures of the phases of life they are representing; they should not misrepresent the facts of geography, natural science, history, business, or human relationships. Writers who get into the _American Boy_ are those who have a story to tell--a point to make--that is worth while; a story of daring which provides a hero (always demanded by boys); a story of adventure that satisfies the boy’s natural longing to roam; a story of an exciting game which, enthralling the boy, makes clear to him what is right and what is wrong; a story of service that will aid the boy to adjust himself to social life; a story of business that will give the boy a true impression of the workaday world he is to enter. Material with a strong feminine element is not used in the _American Boy;_ nor is “little kid” material. The average age of _American Boy_ readers is sixteen; and boys of that age are interested in the doings, not of boys younger than themselves, but of boys their own age, or older, and of men.

Something to be borne in mind by those who essay to write for a boys’ magazine is the distinct difference between stories of boys and stories for boys. The story of boys is particularly popular just now in adult magazines. It tells of a boy from the adult viewpoint. To the adult, what the boy does is often distinctly humorous. To the boy it is serious business, and he would be properly offended should one poke fun at him in his own magazine. The story for boys must be handled from the boy viewpoint, not from the adult viewpoint. This does not mean that the story should be “written down”--quite the reverse. Once having grasped the boy viewpoint and secured the proper angle, the writer should use the same style and diction as in handling the story of similar sort for the ordinary adult publication.

The story for boys need not necessarily be a story of boys. True, a boy is more likely to be interested in a story with a boy hero than in a story of an adult hero. The magazine wishes to place before its readers fictional characters whom the boy may emulate. It is such characters which arouse his enthusiasm.

WALTER P. MCGUIRE.

_The American Boy._ Detroit, Michigan.

ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY

Why _are_ manuscripts rejected? “Why is a mouse when it spins?” Perhaps the reply to the ancient wheeze, “Because the higher the fewer,” is as satisfactory an answer to the first question as any. There are so _many_ reasons, in fact; so many varied and diverse considerations that enter into the acceptance or rejection of a manuscript that a direct and concise answer is impossible. Wholly aside from the merit of the story there is the question of the editorial, business, political, and religious policy of the magazine; the quantity and character of the material on hand; the length of the story which exigencies of make-up may make impossible for that particular magazine, at that particular time, and a dozen other considerations, varying with each publication and of which the author is quite unconscious.

Generally speaking however 90 per cent of manuscripts are rejected because they fail to grip the interest in the first few pages. It might be remembered that the editor in his official capacity is not an analyst or critic. He is first and foremost a _buyer_; and moreover a buyer of comparatively small quantities picked from an enormous mass of material in a limited time. It would be a total impossibility for him to read and weigh in its entirety every manuscript that comes before him. Also it is unnecessary. One doesn’t have to eat the whole of the egg to discover it is passé. He is a buyer and he knows, or is supposed to, the tastes and desires of his principal--that is to say the particular fraction of the general public to which his particular periodical caters--he knows what they want and it is from that point of view that he reads. It is his job and his joy to supply his readers not only with what they want but with the _best_ of what they want, and, if authors would only believe it, there is more rejoicing in the editorial heaven over one new writer of promise than over the ninety and nine who have already arrived.

An editor is not an incompetent ass because he rejects for his adventure magazine a story that later is snapped up by the _Century_ or _Atlantic_, although authors are apt to chortle gleefully over such a contretemps; nor is there any truth in the oft repeated rumors--propagated by the failures--of a cabal to suppress budding genius, and a clique of editors to guard the Olympian heights from all but those bearing the stamp of approval of their masters. As a matter of fact if an author after real and conscientious effort fails to sell it is either because his stuff does not measure up to standard or because he is persistently peddling to the wrong market. You can’t sell the finest line of fancy flower pots to a fish dealer.

It is this latter point that should be stressed especially. Far too many really able authors fail to understand the value of a thorough knowledge of the market. Most of them haven’t even a general knowledge of it; do not think of it at all. To them a magazine is a magazine. Their attitude is “You publish stories, Why not mine?” and they send a beautifully written and wholly plotless character sketch to a publication using only rapid fire adventure stuff and a charming little New England pastoral to one of the magazines devoted wholly to sex topics, and then wonder why they come back.

Perhaps speaking broadly it is this ignorance of market that accounts for at least a large percentage of the rejections that afflict authors (aside from the vast army of amateurs, novices and hopeless incompetents) whose work is really good.

ELLIOT BALESTIER.

_Argosy-Allstory Weekly._ THE FRANK A. MUNSEY CO., 280 Broadway, New York City.

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY

It really would not serve your purpose if I were to write you about my principles of accepting stories. They are too capricious, and would only tend to lower the feelings of respect which you are inculcating in your readers.

Quite seriously, my selection is made according to the whim of one individual.

ELLERY SEDGWICK.

_The Atlantic Monthly._ 8 Arlington Street, Boston, Mass.

THE CENTURY MAGAZINE

When you ask me what kind of stories we want for _The Century_, I am puzzled about answering, for the truth is we like almost all kinds, provided they are done with distinction. I think I may speak for the editorial staff when I say that distinction is the mark at which we are aiming.

_The Century_ is a family magazine, edited for the mature members of the family. Every one who reads the magazine knows that we welcome new writers. Indeed, it is a day of rejoicing when the mail yields a story of real promise by an unknown writer.

We do not want war stories, for the public is tired of war-fiction; nor “machine-made” stories, the cheap clap-trap that has nothing to recommend it but facility.

For myself, I have a confession to make. It is this: “I do not know much about art, but I know what I like!” I am aware that the knowing will look askance upon this avowal of the Philistine, but it is a good creed and wears well. And I believe that the editor who pleases himself in the selection of manuscripts stands a better chance of pleasing others than he who guesses at the tastes of a fickle general public whom he fancies as remote from himself in their likings as a race of Martians.

Simplicity and Sincerity are the true gods in art as in life; of that I am sure.

You ask me to mention several short stories published in _The Century_ within four or five years that we like particularly and to tell you why. I think first of “The Friends,” by Stacy Aumonier, printed in October, 1915. This story is an unplotted, realistic study of two drunkards, friends whose only bond was drink. It is perhaps the most powerful prohibition tract ever published and not a word of prohibition in it! An analysis of Aumonier’s work--any bit of it--will reveal a sureness of touch which is a refreshment to the soul. Some of his stories are finer than others, of course, but like Phyllis Bottome and Anne Douglas Sedgwick, there is always distinction about his work.

Some of the critics were good enough to call “The Friends” the best story published in any magazine that year. To me, besides my admiration for it as an artistic creation, it stands for two things: one, an example of an interesting phenomenon,--Mr. Aumonier was a man in middle life, I am told, when he began writing, and evidently found a beautiful and finished technique in his pocket!--the other, a warning never to judge a story by what it is not. It would be fatally easy to write “no plot” across such a manuscript and lose it forever.

“A Source of Irritation,” also by Stacy Aumonier, published in _The Century_ for January, 1918, is a delicious bit of humor to my way of thinking. It is pleasant to know that Aumonier’s many-sided mind has humor and gaiety, too, in its composition.

“The Wedding Jest” and “Porcelain Cups” by James Branch Cabell, printed in September, 1919, and November, 1919 seem to me very lovely. In the stodge of every-day literary expression, such delicacy and grace are rare indeed. These stories are remarkable for that almost obsolete quality, “style.”

“The Fat of the Land,” by Anzia Yeszierska, a study of the Russian Jew in America and the reaction of the older generation to the loud prosperities of the younger, is excellent work, full of the intangible quality of race and keen in its psychology. It was published in _The Century_ for August, 1919.

One wishes to mention, too, the black magic of “The Black Key,” by Joseph Hergesheimer, the rich embroideries of H. G. Dwight and Achmed Abdullah, the bold portraiture of Harvey O’Higgins, the subtly fine work of Marjory Morten. Also that exquisite study of innocence, “Red and White,” by Roland Pertwee; and Myla Jo Closser’s dog-story, “At the Gate.”

It is impossible for any magazine to sustain regularly the level of its best fiction, for the simple reason that such stories do not happen frequently--would there were more of them! Those I have mentioned are among the best, in my judgment, that _The Century_ has published for several years, and it is towards work of such character that we are aiming.

I take it, dear Miss Wick, that you have asked me to characterize some of our most cherished stories in order to show by concrete examples the kind of fiction _The Century_ wants; and I believe that you are right in thinking this plan the best way of saying it.

Sincerely yours, ANNE STODDARD.

_The Century Magazine._ 353 Fourth Avenue, New York City.

COLLIER’S, THE NATIONAL WEEKLY

When a writer wants to please an editor, the surest way is to forget all about him. The editor is not reading the story for his own entertainment. He reads with only one idea in mind: “Will this story appeal to all kinds of people? Is it a good story?”

An editor of a magazine of general circulation seldom seeks one particular kind of story. He wants the best stories written. The quickest way to his favor is to write them.

There are no set rules for accomplishing this. Only a few landmarks are on the road. Know your subject. Have something to tell. Be sure that something happens in the story.

If nothing happens, if there is no action, you have perhaps written a very good essay or a very convincing argument--but you will not be able to sell it as a short story.

Remember that you are writing a short story, not a condensed novel. A short story, once started, has only one object--to end as quickly as possible.

There are only two people who can infallibly detect padding in a story. One is yourself. The other is the reader.

It pays, always, to be clean. A questionable story will attract many people--but it will repel more.

Few writers succeed in being convincing when they wander into fields they don’t know. Every man collects a mass of information concerning the road over which he has traveled, and the people he met on the way. Use this information. It will furnish all the short stories you can ever write.

Just as people strive for “happy endings” in their own affairs, so they like them in stories which they read for entertainment.

The enduring themes for short stories are the enduring themes in life itself; the old copybook virtues, like self-sacrifice, courage, generosity, resourcefulness and faith.

The writer succeeds in proportion as he makes his reader eager for another story by him. Editors have ways to judge this reaction. Forget the editor, and what you think he wants. Write directly to the man or woman who is going to buy the magazine and read your story.

HARFORD POWELL, JR.

_Collier’s, The National Weekly._ 416 West 13th Street, New York City.

AINSLEE’S MAGAZINE