Part 26

Stories in which a will demands that two people who hate each other marry and they do fall in love with one another.

Stories in which all complications are explained by the unknown existence of a twin.

War stories.

Suicide stories.

We realize that this list is quite incomplete, but we hope that it will act as a suggestion to would-be _Parisienne_ and _Saucy Stories_ contributors that they consider very carefully before submitting a story, whether the plot answer our first requisite--novelty.

And we want to make an earnest plea that authors will not only read this short article carefully, but will look over both magazines and get some idea of the type of fiction required before sending in stories that are totally unsuited to either publication.

THE EDITORS.

_The Parisienne._ _Saucy Stories._ 25 West Forty-fifth Street, New York City.

THE PEOPLE’S HOME JOURNAL

The conscientious writer of fiction, the man who takes his work seriously, is sure to get his innings. And at no time in the history of magazines has this been so true as now. War conditions were responsible for a four-years’ opportunity seized by too many mediocre writers to get their wares before the reading public. The result has been a healthy, vigorous reaction against the sort of stuff Editors were perhaps obliged to accept when so many able-bodied, sober-minded drivers of the quill were across the sea fighting for battle honors instead of bay wreaths.

Because for thirty-six years _The People’s Home Journal_ has been called “the magazine for every member of the family,” it has offered a more inclusive market for fiction than magazines making their principal appeal to women. Big stories of the out of doors have helped to swell the _Journal’s_ circulation. On the other hand, the kind of story that surprises the laugh before the tear is over is popular with our readers.

Certainly these readers will not stand either for the dry-as-dust, categorical type of story, nor for the rapid-fire type, the kind manufactured, not created. The _Journal’s_ rising newsstand sales respond barometer-wise to a _Journal_ serial built around love, mystery or high adventure, but crowded with real things happening and truthful in its transcript of healthy emotions. Studies in morbid pathology come to every Editor’s desk, usually from the amateur, but the sane reactions which follow situations dealing with real people are what most readers understand and like. The villain who might be your next-door neighbor, the hero who could have jostled elbows with you in the subway, the heroine who is the not impossible she of every man’s dreams are sure to score.

There will always be a demand for the psychological story. And the story dealing with mental processes can be made as tense and gripping as the so-called action story if it has actual story interest. But too many psychological stories start out to prove something of no importance.

In the last analysis, “the story’s the thing,” whether it deals with battle, murder or sudden death, or with the complexities of mind induced by a given situation.

If I were asked to explain briefly what I considered the chief characteristic of _The People’s Home Journal_ story, I would say that it is dramatic because it interprets life in a way to stir the emotions, and I would add that it usually contains a message, always clear to the reader, a message which lingers in his memory when perhaps the plot, the characters and the story’s charm have faded.

MARY BOTSFORD CHARLTON.

_The People’s Home Journal._ 76-88 Lafayette Street, New York City.

PEOPLE’S MAGAZINE

It is one of the easiest things in the world to make a statement of the negative side of a proposition and it is correspondingly difficult to give an adequate and intelligent idea of all that is involved in the positive.

So, it is invariably my impulse to tell what I don’t want when I am asked to explain the needs of the magazine of which I happen to be the editor. At the present time I am in editorial charge of the _People’s Magazine_, and its special aversions can be briefly and, I hope, comprehensively stated.

We will return, as promptly as courtesy permits, all manuscripts purporting to be stories--the magazine uses only fiction--but which are, in fact, nothing more than catalogues or monologues. “Catalogues” include fiction in which descriptive writing prevails, with a minimum amount of action and characterization. This applies also to so-called “machine-made” stories, narratives merely of events, bare recitals of what happened to so-and-so under such-and-such conditions. The objection to such stories is that, as a rule they are anemic in substance, superficial in conception and perfunctory in execution. They are lacking in real vital, dramatic interest. Monologues, in the derivative sense in which I have used the term, obviously means a “story within a story,” or one told by one of the characters.

Specifically, the _People’s Magazine_ will not publish a sex story, or even what is, generically and innocuously, a love story, though as to the latter, one which is otherwise acceptable will not be rejected because it embodies a love interest which is a necessary episode in the plot; it does not care for pseudo-scientific stories, or business stories constructed according to the formulas in common use; it objects to prize-fight or other sport stories, but only those of the conventional type which, after glancing at the opening, the average reader can finish for himself with little deviation from the text; it objects to society stories, high, middle-class or low, and it turns its back on horrors, sordidness and abnormality. And finally it cannot use mere character or psychological studies, which are not stories at all.

This is a very brief statement, limited by space requirements, of what the _People’s Magazine_ does _not_ want.

What it _does_ want will take a little longer to tell. The prevailing note of the magazine is open air adventure, with a distinctly American flavor; with this qualification we impose no limitations as to place. Adventure stories with a setting in the United States or Canada may be put in a period within the limits of the nineteenth or twentieth centuries. There is a mine of authentic material of highly dramatic character, much of which, to be sure, has been used in fiction, but by no means all. We do not object to the use in fictional forms of historical events and characters by name; in fact we rather welcome it.

Every one, of course, is familiar with the “western story.” Thanks to “The Virginian” it has been popularized by the magazines and vulgarized by the movies; we object, not to the “western story,” but to its formula. If anybody has anything fresh and original to contribute to it we will thank God and reward him according to his deserts and our ability. Open air adventure, American, but in any part of the world is, as I have said, the prevailing note, and we want to strike that note with a complete novel of from 30,000 to 50,000 words in every number.

In general, and excluding the type of stories I have already referred to as those that we don’t want, we will accept any short or continued story that is a really good one; this covers the mystery story.

Now a story, in order to deserve the name, must involve a conflict or duel, either of human beings, or--proceeding of course from human beings--ideas or emotions. Without the conflict there is no drama, and without the drama there is no story. And out of the conflict and complication should come a denouement which satisfies the reader’s sense of justice or his sense of the appropriateness of things in general. Such a denouement may incur the reproach of being a “happy ending,” but the author should rid himself of that bugaboo and not be afraid of utilizing it, if _necessary_. It’s only a cant phrase and does not mean a thing to the masses who read him and make his reputation for him. Personally, I believe that most unhappy endings are deliberately planned and thrown in as a sop to the Cerberus of “realism.”

A real story ought to have an initial impulse that carries it along, without faltering, from beginning to end, that is to say, _movement_. A great many stories sag at some point, or collapse in the middle or go to pieces at the end. Such catastrophes can be averted.

It sometimes seems to me that very, very few authors realize how much honest, sincere characterization helps a story--how much, indeed, it may help to make a genuine story out of a very slender plot. The human element is what gives a story such vitality as it has and time and effort devoted to it is well spent, and usually profitably spent.

This leads me to say that the human touch is the thing we look for in every manuscript that comes in to _People’s_ editorial office; somewhere in each story we hope to find an unexpected display, by one or more of the characters, of courage, or generosity, or renunciation, or self-sacrifice, or some other human trait that brings to the reader a conviction that, after all, human nature is better than experience has taught him to believe. This is the sort of thing that people never weary of. Common-place characters, common-place experiences, common-place emotions take on dramatic color by these unlooked-for demonstrations.

Finally, we want our stories told in plain, direct, straightforward style. We object to any peculiarity of phraseology which tends to divert the attention of the reader from the substance of the story to the manner of the writer. But individuality of style, which is quite another thing, and honest slang, judiciously used, are welcome.

I want to conclude with a word on some of the delusions, as they seem to me, about what is called “the art of the short story,” or of “short story writing.” I am almost tempted to say that there is no such art, but I have no desire to dogmatize because, in dealing in generalities, it is always necessary to add qualifications. I should say that story-telling is instinctive; that every human being has the story-telling sense. There’s nothing particularly original in that idea, but it seems to me that its significance has been curiously neglected with the result that so-called instruction in the forms of an alleged art has taken the place of the cultivation of an inherent impulse. The faculty of observation is the one which, first of all, makes any story possible. In O. Henry it was so highly developed that, at a glance, he saw a significance in things that simply did not exist for most people, even for trained writers. To this he added facility of expression and a sense of humor, which is fundamentally, a sense of proportion; and he paid little attention to forms. I speak of him because he illustrates so distinctly the points I have in mind and also because I was intimately acquainted with him and with his methods.

Of course “we can’t all be O. Henrys”--he was born with the story-telling sense fully developed--but we can attain a certain degree of approximation to his achievements by diligent cultivation of the three essentials that he had without cultivation, namely: observation, expression, proportion. And this is a lesson that must be self-taught--nobody can teach it, for the simple reason that one person cannot do another’s hard work.

A. L. SESSIONS.

_People’s Popular Monthly._ 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City.

THE PEOPLE’S POPULAR MONTHLY

When we buy a short story there are three very different things which we desire that story to do:

First: It must tell a story compellingly--so compellingly that when one is through reading, there is a very definite emotional response which stays with the reader. If one is conscious of the means technically employed to place the story before the reader, that story has failed as such.

If, however, the narrative takes you out of yourself and gives you a definite feeling of sympathy with that of the people in the story--it is in this point successful.

Second: Having gripped the attention and taken a hold upon the feeling of the reader, it must, in order to qualify for a place in our pages, fill a very real need in the lives of our particular type of readers.

There are many splendid stories which we are forced to return, due to the fact that they do not fill this particular need.

We have among our readers a preponderance of people who have been limited in their mental experiences and are consequently limited in their intellectual grasp. They are, however, from the rural and small town districts in that opulent region extending from the Alleghenies to the Rockies, and are, by virtue of this fact, a peculiarly keen and progressive people. Their judgment is sincere and their viewpoint is human. Their lives are in many cases a bit monotonous and often isolated; in consequence of which a story should have a real narrative interest, and, in all cases, strong entertainment value, with a wholesome dose of brightness and good cheer. We return all morbidly tragic stories.

Third: When we have found a story which stirs the feeling and fills the need of our particular readers, it is then time, and not until then, to look to the technic of the story. That is something which can be regulated to a large extent by editing in those cases where errors are not too flagrant.

There is, of course, a certain readability of expression, absolutely imperative, but that is something incorporate with the first point. They are practically inseparable.

Therefore, granted that the style was such as to make the emotional feeling paramount to the word consciousness of the reader--then any errors which may have crept in are not too flagrant to be corrected.

Of course, we do not find, in as many cases as we wish, stories which meet all three requirements, and oftentimes our pages have in them things which fall short of these three points.

ELIZABETH B. CANADAY.

_The People’s Popular Monthly._ Des Moines, Iowa.

PHOTOPLAY

I do not believe that any editor, whether of a fiction magazine or any periodical, can judge material successfully on any other than a very personal basis of likes and dislikes. In other words, I buy a story if I like it, and believe this to be the only method. Someone has to pass on it finally, and a publication must stand or fall on his judgment.

JAMES R. QUIRK.

_Photoplay._ 25 West Forty-fifth Street, New York City.

PICTORIAL REVIEW

You ask me a pretty difficult question--I have no absolute rule for saying yes or no to a short story and, as far as that goes, I don’t think any other editor has. There are such things in magazine offices as editorial policies, but if they are good editorial policies they must be more or less elastic, subject to change without notice and not very well defined anyway. Folks come in and ask me what kind of stories _Pictorial Review_ likes. The only answer I can give is “good stories.” If they ask why I buy this story and not that, I would say because I think it more interesting than the other, but to go further and to ask me to explain precisely why it is the more interesting is too much for me. There may be editors who can sit down and in a magic manner tell just exactly why they bought this story and refused that, but they must be smarter editors than I am. I really cannot do it with sincerity or conviction and do not try.

Do I buy stories because I like them myself or because I think our readers will like them? That’s another sticker. I generally buy stories because I like them myself, because if I disregarded my own taste and tried to pick out a story that our readers would like and which I didn’t like, I would be hopelessly at sea all the time.

I would really feel ashamed of myself were I to publish a story which I personally thought to be piffle just because I thought it would “sell the magazine.”

Moreover, I don’t think any editor knows just what his readers like or _might_ like except in a general way. We have no exact way of telling and my experience has been to follow my own judgment and, when the Circulation Manager comes along and tells me the circulation of the magazine is increasing by leaps and bounds, I am then licensed to feel that my judgment must have been good. Because I am just a plain, ordinary type of person and there must be hundreds of thousands and millions of people in the country like me; and what interests me will quite generally interest them, at least I have found it so. Don’t take from this that the Circulation Manager comes along every month and tells me the circulation of the magazine is increasing by leaps and bounds, but sometimes he does, and then I know a certain story or serial in the magazine got across in a big way; but what does that mean? It doesn’t mean that I can go out off-hand and get another story just like it and ring the bell again. We don’t buy stories that way--writers do not write them that way--I wish they did because the editor’s job would be easy.

Now here’s another peculiar thing, _Pictorial Review_ is a woman’s magazine, and yet I am a man and there is nothing particularly feminine about me in my tastes or activities. We do not pick out stories because we think they are good woman’s magazine stories; in fact, we have no earthly use for the typical woman’s magazine story, that sweet and pretty, mush and milk affair that used to grace the pages of our contemporaries. We found out years ago that women were interested in good, short stories that picture the vital, human things in life and that there was no real reason for their being obliged to go to the men’s magazines to read them. So we began to publish real stories in _Pictorial Review_.

I realize that all this is more or less indefinite and possibly of little help to the aspiring author, but if said aspiring author will bear in mind that the only way to sell short stories is to make them interesting and, if they are made sufficiently interesting, they will sell themselves--that’s all there is to it.

ARTHUR T. VANCE.

_Pictorial Review._ THE PICTORIAL REVIEW COMPANY, 214-226 West 39th Street, New York City.

POPULAR MAGAZINE

In selecting stories I bear in mind the fact that the buying of fiction is a business and not a literary occupation. This means that I have always in mind the ultimate consumer--the fellow who knows nothing of literature as such but who likes good stories.

What are these?

First and foremost, a story about a new phase of life and industry. The American reader is by no means a prude or intolerant, but he likes sane, almost practical stuff. He likes romance, but it must be normal and wholesome. He does not like the erotic or morbid. Without being in the least “literary,” his taste is surprisingly good. As a rule, he does not want tragedies, but will accept them if exceedingly well done. A good mystery story is sure-fire.

Current American fiction is one of the livest things in the world to-day. Keen intelligence goes into the making of it. It plays a bigger part in the formation of public opinion than most people know. It is a genuinely civilizing influence. As a rule, a man’s taste in fiction improves and his standards in stories become higher the more he reads. The very cheapest of the magazines are turning the foreign populations of the second generation in our cities into Americans at a surprising rate. The author of the day is writing for a big public, not a small, select one.

Here are a few things for the author to bear in mind. If a writer can describe human beings so well that they seem real; if he sometimes laughs at, sometimes is irritated with, sometimes loves these people who come to life in the pages of the story, he has his first great point. If he can write conversation such as you actually hear he has his second. If he can write good, straightforward English, at once clear, forcible, and vivid, he has the third. But all of these are of no use unless the author has the sense of construction that makes him write real stories,--that is, plots that unfold and develop to a logical conclusion, instead of mere sketches or anecdotes. The one satisfies; the other does not.

Successful authors all work hard, and the bigger an author is the more you can criticise his work to his face. He appreciates that it is a technical calling and he wants and appreciates intelligent criticism.

Are there many good writers who can’t get a hearing? Practically none. Names count in a fashion. The author who has a public gets stronger with his readers the more he writes. If a man has a literary gift and the energy and persistency back of it he will find fiction a good business.

But just because story-writing has taken on some of the aspects of commercialism it has by no means lost the romance, the humor, the humanity, that it had in the old Grub Street days. After all, we are dealing with the stuff that dreams are made of, the inspiration of ambition, the literature of hope and effort and human aspiration, the running chronicle of our ways, our manners, our civilization. Most of it will fade and pass with the fading years; some of it will live.

CHARLES AGNEW MACLEAN.

_Popular Magazine._ STREET AND SMITH CORPORATION, Seventh Avenue and Fifteenth Street, New York City.

THE RED BOOK MAGAZINE

Karl Harriman, the editor, had promised a statement as he said that he welcomed this opportunity to point out to would-be contributors the differentiation in editorial policy between The Red Book Magazine, The Blue Book Magazine and The Green Book Magazine. However, a press of unexpected work made it impossible for him to do this before this book had to be sent to press. At that time he spoke in a general way of the fact that for The Red Book Magazine he was constantly looking for stories of the different sections of the United States; then again for stories of the different interests that were absorbing the attention of the people at the moment, such as stories of oil, psychic stories, etc. For The Blue Book Magazine he wanted more out-and-out adventure and tales that would primarily appeal to men; for The Green Book Magazine stories that would find their immediate audience among women.

_The Red Book Magazine._ _The Blue Book Magazine._ _The Green Book Magazine._ 36 South State Street, Chicago, Ill.

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

George Horace Lorimer, the editor-in-chief of _The Saturday Evening Post_, said quite frankly when asked to write briefly his attitude and point of view in the selecting of fiction for his magazine that neither he nor his staff were willing to regard the _Post_ as a training school for young writers.

He went on to say that he and his associates felt that the circulation of the magazine, the fact that it bought more fiction than any other American periodical, paid well and quickly, and published without great delay, made it inevitable that most writers who entered the profession would in the course of events submit material to the _Post_. Should a story by an unknown writer please one of the staff readers it would then be submitted to him and to his immediate associates for acceptance or rejection. Should this same writer succeed equally with subsequent stories, the _Post’s_ editors would then personally consult with this author as to the magazine’s immediate needs and help by suggestion and advice to make his or her material more available from the _Post_ viewpoint.

In this connection it is interesting to note that while their list of writers includes many of the best-known names among American short story writers, the magazine has also accepted and published the stories of many writers who had had no previous audience and whose names were until the time of their appearance in the _Post_ wholly unknown.