Chapter 14

CONCLUSION

Story and Tale--Realism the Method--Realism the Dogma-- Philosophy of Fiction--Interest--Power of the Real Problems of Life--Test of Merit--Aim of Executive Artistry-- Verisimilitude--Ultimate Artistic Significance of Plot.

The purpose of this book has been to shed a little light on the essential technical processes of the art of fiction; to state a general philosophy of fiction has not been my aim. Accordingly, the text touches only incidentally upon the fundamental types of fiction and a writer's fundamental purposes in adopting any one of them as a medium for expression of himself or his conceptions. Partly to justify some of the text, and partly because it may prove of practical service, I shall state briefly a general theory or philosophy of fiction-not my theory, merely, nor that of anyone else, but simply the theory which is implied in the content and aim of the art itself.

The content of fiction is man and what he may experience, in body, mind, and soul; the aim of fiction is to interest. Certain results follow, but before stating them it will be well to clear the way a little.

I have stated that a story is a fiction with a plot, and have defined a plot as a dramatic problem, that is, a course of events which function together as a whole in that they influence and are influenced by character or personality. And nine-tenths of the technique of fiction is concerned with the object to develop a plot. To develop a tale, a fiction, long or short, without a plot, only direct narrative and descriptive writing is requisite; it is the plot-element of a fiction, with all its implications as to personality, that forces the writer of a story--a fiction with a plot--to weave together cunningly each strand of his matter, narrative, exposition, dialogue, description, that the whole pattern may show fictionally real people doing in a fictionally real world what one might naturally expect from their natures and the circumstances of their lives. The task is infinitely more difficult and delicate than to take a Sinbad the Sailor or a Cinderella through a course of happenings without essential relation to the nature of either person, who is, in each case, a mere human focal point for the events to be precipitated upon. Accordingly, this book concentrates upon the fiction of plot, or story, rather than the fiction without plot, or tale. The technique of the fiction of plot comprehends and includes the technique of the tale, which could be ignored here without loss.

Whether or not a fiction possess a plot, and is a story, or lacks a plot, and is a tale, it will be concerned with people and what they do, the man and his acts. Long or short, a fiction must deal with man, at least with personality, as do London's "The Call of the Wild" and Kipling's "The Ship That Found Herself." Since fiction deals with man, it deals both with physical and spiritual facts, with the facts of the soul and the more tangible things of the body and the earth. It results that either the spiritual or physical element of any fiction may largely outweigh the other, at least, preponderate over it. That is, the long story may be what is known as a novel or what is known as a romance, and the brief story may reveal the fate of the spirit rather than the fate of the body and mind.[T]

Precisely at this point one encounters a difficulty raised by critical comment on fiction, the whole complex of obscurantism about "realism" and "romanticism." Instead of wasting space in trying to unravel the threads of the tangle as stated by those who have knotted it, it will be much easier and much more profitable to state a few facts that will demonstrate the essential fallacy of such discussion.

In the first place, realism characterizes a method, one that might better be called the method of stating the concrete in detail. If a story is concerned largely with the more common actualities of everyday life, it is possible that its writer may best create his illusion of reality by itemizing the physical facts in some detail.

In the second place, "realism" has been elevated from a mere technical method into an artistic creed or dogma. The assumption is made that only the more tangible matters of life are realities, and that fiction should seek to present only the real.

It is unnecessary to do more than state that the first term of this assumption is false. Not only are there facts of the spirit as well as facts of the body and the phenomenal universe, but the spiritual fact is precisely the fact which is fictionally significant. Fiction deals with man for man, and man is man just and only because he has an intelligence and a soul, enabling him to impose his will upon brute matter and to rise superior to evil fortune.

The second term of the realists' assumption is that fiction should present only the real. And the essential fallacy of the assumption is this: it ignores the fact that the first aim of fiction is to interest. Philosophy, not fiction, must give us a test of truth and reality. Irrespective of what is real--a question that the confirmed realist answers falsely, because partially and exclusively--one who denies the reality and significance of the spiritual life of man, and therefore refuses to give it fictional treatment, debars himself from presenting much interesting matter.

It might not be too dull, incidentally, to go into the question of how much the world of the spirit shall be allowed to impose its necessities on the world of the flesh, but the matter is subordinate, part of the general question of verisimilitude. Frequently, to give concrete fictional treatment to a fact of the soul, the writer will have to falsify deliberately as to physical facts, as Stevenson did in "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."

Realism, the technical method expanded into an artistic dogma, has much to answer for. In the hands of the French, it has been responsible for much that is uselessly unpleasant and brutal; in the hands of English and American writers, it has been responsible for much dullness. The unpleasant facts and petty concerns of life alike are significant only in relation to the persons they affect; in themselves, they are dreary or repellent items. If the ugly fact has no relation to the story as such, it should not be given place; if the commonplace detail has no relation to the course of the story, and will perform no office in lending reality to the fiction in a reader's eyes, it should not be transcribed.

The misconceptions that cluster about realism the dogma affect adversely both the writer of long fiction and the writer of short fiction. But the writer of short fiction, if he has read even a little critical comment in an endeavor to inform himself of the essential nature of his art, will have been confused and misdirected by the eternal quarrel over the short story, what it is, whether it is a distinct literary form, its totality or unity of effect, and so forth. I have said much on this head in discussing the short story, and shall not repeat the argument here. It is enough to say that the short story most certainly is a distinct literary form, in that it is brief enough to be read at one sitting and embodies a plot or dramatic problem, which is not true of the tale. But its distinction from other forms of fiction, plotted and unplotted alike, does not lie in its totality or unity of effect, except in the case of the short story of atmosphere. The dramatic short story, whether it stresses character or the event, differs from the novel or romance not in that it possesses a plot--so do the longer types--but in that it is brief. And it differs from the tale--which also is brief--in that it possesses a plot. The short story of atmosphere is abnormal, and a type in itself.

As was stated in the chapter on the short story, the only sense in which the dramatic short story can be said to possess unity is purely verbal. As a mere sequence of words, it possesses unity in that each word is essential to the story. That is not to say that the matter of the story, its people, situations, and settings, is "unified," whatever the word may mean so applied. The form is verbally coherent, but not necessarily coherent in substance, except that it embodies one plot--or story-idea, no more, no less. The one story-idea may involve great diversity in its three elements of people, events, and setting. It would not be worth while to discuss the general false emphasis upon the unity of the short story were it not for the strong tendency of such discussion to lead the writer to devise stories too simple really to interest, apart from the appeal to their characters.

It seems to me that the question of realism and the question of the dramatic short story's assumed unity of substance are the two pitfalls into which the feet of the writer of fiction who reads the mass of comment on his art are most apt to stray. It is difficult enough to find an interesting story without having one eye blinded by a false artistic philosophy. Generally, in reading critical comment on specific stories and authors and on the art of fiction, the writer of fiction will do well to remember that such matter is written for the general reader, not for the practitioner of the art, and that the poor critic must say something! He cannot discuss technique, for he would be both dull and unintelligible to the general reader. So he says what he does.

It remains to state a true artistic philosophy for the writer of fiction, that philosophy which is implied in the content and aim of the art of fiction itself. The content of fiction is man and what he possibly or conceivably may experience; the aim of fiction is to interest. It would be more accurate to state that the content of fiction is personality and what it may experience--witness any animal story, or Kipling's story of a steamship, cited above--but fiction deals so exclusively with man that the first statement may stand.

Since the content of fiction is man and what he possibly or conceivably may experience, the writer of fiction is at liberty to go to fairyland or South Boston, to heaven, hell, or the stock-exchange, for the material for his story. He is subject to no limitations, for whatever he can conceive is open to his use. If he does choose to leave the homely earth, however, he cannot return until he has finished the story. If his story moves in a fairy world subject only to physical laws of its own, such basic conditions of the story must continue to operate. But that is a matter of achieving the aim to interest rather than a matter of content, of telling the story so that it will seem real even though it is unbelievable.

The reader will note that the content of fiction gives him opportunity to write so terrifically "realistic" a thing as Dostoievsky's "House of the Dead," so nobly "romantic" a thing as Hawthorne's "Scarlet Letter," or so finely fantastic a thing as Carroll's "Alice in Wonderland." The sole limitation upon his work is his own conceptive and executive power, unless he foolishly subjects himself to the bondage of some special school. As time goes on, his own essential bent of mind and heart will gradually reveal to him the sort of matter he can handle best.

The influence upon the fiction writer's philosophy of the aim and necessity to interest may now be discussed.

An important point is that there are degrees of interest. A strongly novel course of events will catch and hold a reader's interest, but the interest aroused by a fiction presenting a novel course of events and nothing else is not quite the same thing as the interest aroused by a story which shows real men and women meeting the real problems of life, material or spiritual. The interest aroused by mere novelty is a matter largely of the intelligence; it tends to be evanescent because it has little or no relation to the emotional nature. On the other hand, the other sort of interest, that aroused by the spectacle of real men and women meeting the real problems of life, is deepened and intensified by the emotional element of sympathy and hate for lovable and hateful people. And the real, though perhaps intrinsically simple problems of life--to make a living, win love, overcome temptation--are precisely the problems which are humanly significant because universally experienced. The story which shows real people struggling with such a problem will have a keener interest for a reader through his familiarity with its matter in personal experience. Such a story appeals to the emotions both through its people and through its theme.

This matter is well worth dwelling upon, for, apart from merit in point of executive artistry, the only standard whereby a story can be estimated as relatively significant or relatively insignificant is the standard of interest, that is, interest for the ideal reader, the reader of open and able mind and sympathetic heart. The aim of fiction is to interest, and the story which most deeply interests most completely fulfils the ideals of the art. "Les Miserables" is a greater book than any one of Jules Verne's mechanical romances, not because it is better written, and not because it is a terrific indictment of society--as a modern reviewer might put it--but simply because its people and matter generally arouse the most poignant emotional and intellectual interest in a reader qualified to feel its power. The interest aroused by Verne's sort of story--H. G. Wells' earlier work and Conan Doyle's "The Lost World" are more recent examples--is real, but almost exclusively intellectual, therefore relatively weak and evanescent. Books such as "Les Miserables" cannot be forgotten; the details of the story may vanish from the mind with time; but a reader will retain through life the memory of the book's power, the memory of the eagerness with which he followed the fortunes of its people.

Between masterpieces that will incorporate their essence and memory with a reader's very life--books such as "Les Miserables" and "The Scarlet Letter," to name together the utterly dissimilar--and stories that can serve only to while away an idle hour or two, there are fictions of every sort and condition, the product of all sorts of aims and philosophies, artistic and moral. Apart from the matter of executive artistry, each must take rank as relatively good or relatively feeble in accordance with its power to evoke interest. Some--as the detective story or any story of ratiocination--have in high degree the power to call forth a reader's intellectual interest; some--as the fictional comedy of manners--may interest slightly the mind through their plot and the heart through their people; but each is significant as a fiction solely by virtue of its power to enthrall a reader of open mind and sympathetic heart.

If the power to interest the ideal reader is the sole test of a story's merit as a fiction--and no other test can withstand examination even for a moment--it inevitably follows that to be a masterpiece a story, long or short, must show fictionally real men and women coping with the material and spiritual problems of our common human destiny. No other matter can arouse the deepest and most abiding interest in a reader. However perfect a writer's technique, if he chooses to write of physical or spiritual matters that are relatively trivial and insignificant, he cannot hope to do the finest work. Of course, it is unnecessary to say that the writer of fiction rests under no moral or artistic obligation to attempt a masterpiece in each story he undertakes. He is under obligation to attempt to interest in some degree.

Thus far, in discussing the influence upon the fiction writer's philosophy of the aim and necessity that fiction interest, emphasis has been laid upon the question of matter. But from the aim and necessity results the whole executive technique.

The general proposition is that significant matter cannot arouse a reader's deepest interest unless it is presented to him effectively, nor can relatively insignificant matter arouse whatever interest is attainable by it unless it also is presented effectively. The writer of a story must seek to invest it with reality in the eyes of a reader, and his resources to perform this difficult task make up the body of the technique of fiction.

It follows that the best story in point of executive artistry is the story which realizes most fully the inherent capacity of its matter to interest. However significant the content of a story, if the writer's hand falter in execution, something of the fiction's appeal for a reader will be lost.

The general aim of executive artistry or technique is to invest the story with such reality that a reader will himself see so much of the thing as is physical and feel so much of it as is emotional or spiritual, for only thus can be evoked the full measure of interest inherent in the matter. Unless the writer's words constitute in themselves a primary spectacle and experience for a reader, instead of a mere secondary relation, the story cannot have full effect. A reader will not accept the mere say-so of the writer, who must spread upon his page the very stuff of life itself, rather than mere words.

How difficult the task, it is unnecessary to dwell upon, but one thing should be noted. This necessary power to precipitate reality, this literary power, only infrequently involves writing in a "literary" manner or style. The essence of literary power is to present the particular matter fittingly, not artificially. If the particular story concerns simple, everyday people and simple, everyday events, it should be told in simple, everyday language, for such language will serve best to precipitate the matter for a reader. Literary power is the power to adapt the word to the matter, not the power of "fine" writing. Some stories call for little verbal elaboration, while such a thing as "The Fall of the House of Usher" exhausts the capacities of language, but whatever the nature of any story, its writer's artistry and technical capacity are measurable by the degree in which he succeeds in endowing it with reality and verisimilitude, not by the verbal noise and agility he makes and displays.

Verisimilitude, of course, is a relative term. The matter of the story of everyday life is essentially tangible and concrete, and its writer can invest it with tangibility and concreteness in a degree higher than is attainable by the writer who deals with fantasies and dreams. The measure of verisimilitude attainable by any story is limited by its content. If it deals with fine-spun fancies, it cannot attain the hearty solidity of the story that deals with the matter of fact. No writer can do more than precipitate his conception in his words; if the conception itself is essentially airy and impalpable, so must the story be airy and impalpable. In fact, the perfect fictional illusion is that which most nearly produces on a reader the exact impression the matter would produce if actually experienced. If a story is strictly unbelievable--of course any story is conceivable, or it would not have been written--the writer can do no more than create an illusion of fictional verity, not of literal verity. That is, a reader will accept the author's basic assumptions and the whole story as well, if it is developed logically from the assumptions. Any fairy tale is an instance of what is meant.

I will mention briefly one other consequence of the aim and necessity that fiction interest. Usually the story, or fiction embodying a plot, will interest more deeply than the mere tale. Therefore the writer of fiction usually will choose to write stories rather than tales. The bare fact is that the highest type of fiction, the fiction of greatest power over a reader through its human significance, is adequately plotted simply because it does show real people meeting a real problem of life.

At this point becomes apparent how much that grossly abused word "plot" stands for. Broadly, a plot is a dramatic problem, and a dramatic problem results from the opposition of man and man, the opposition of man and nature, or conflict within a single man. The element of mere complication is not essential to a plot, not being essential to a dramatic problem. "Dramatic situation" is perhaps a better term than "plot," for it has none of the associations of complication that cling to the latter. Even "dramatic situation" is objectionable, because it has connotations of the state, and suggests an acuteness and tensity, a general brevity and pitch of struggle that is not essential to fiction. "Robinson Crusoe," for instance, though not very tense, is adequately plotted; it shows man's struggle for bread, shelter, and raiment. "Don Quixote" is adequately plotted; it shows man in the grip of a dream, and so at odds with all the world.[U] As stated, all great fiction is adequately plotted simply because it shows real people faced by the real problems of life. The plot of a story of worth stands for its author's effort to isolate one of life's significant elements or problems, and, by showing it in high relief, to invest it with that certain dignity and momentousness, as of life raised to a high power, whereby a reader may be laid under a spell more absolute than any to which the confused and shifting spectacle of life itself can subject him. In the last analysis, great fiction does more than to interest; it whispers to a reader of the significance and worth of human life, and heartens him to live his own.

FOOTNOTES:

[T] In a sense, the mind is of the body rather than of the soul, where it functions in the common business of life.

[U] Dostoievsky's "The Idiot" should be compared with "Don Quixote," for the fundamental theme of each book is the same.

APPENDIX

APPENDIX A

SUGGESTIONS FOR THE STUDENT

It is surely obvious that the only way to learn how to write is--to write. The only way to learn how to do anything is to try until the secret is conquered, and the more difficult the feat or art the longer must be the apprenticeship.

Stepping from abstract study of technique to the actual writing of a story is a violent transition. The student has only a very general knowledge, and now he must give it narrowly specific application. He has read a brief discussion of the mechanics of the art of describing a person, for instance, has read Stevenson's description of Villon and his fellows; now he himself must write a description of Napoleon or Lizzie Smith or John Arthur McAllister; and he desires to write as well as Stevenson.

The only thing to do is to go at the task patiently and with courage. Put the best of you at the moment into each thing you undertake, but do not expect each single item of your work to show an appreciable advance, and do not be discouraged if each thing you do seems as poor or no better than what has gone before. Your first, second, tenth, or fifteenth story may be patent trash, in point of execution, but never mind. After a year or so of intelligent and directed writing the results of your study and application of technique will begin to appear. It is impossible that they should show themselves at once, for technical study will cramp and constrain you until you have gained some real facility in writing in accordance with the canons of art. That is true of all arts, of course. No tool can be used properly without practice.

Perhaps you may desire to submit your practice work to magazines and publishers as you go along, and if you mean to have a serious try at the game it is advisable that you do so. The fact that you are writing for submission will serve as a stimulus; you will receive helpful incidental criticisms from editors, if your work shows promise; and, above all, you will gradually acquire the necessary knowledge of the market, its needs, tendencies, and desires. However, I do not believe it advisable for one who is trying to learn to write to ape deliberately the tone of particular magazines, with an eye to possible sales. That is a trick of the trade--and permissible enough--but it is no way to learn to write fiction. The skilled hand can direct his efforts so, but the apprentice had better center his efforts upon finding some good story and upon writing it to the best he knows how.

A few specific bits of advice as to how to go about practicing the art of fiction may not be useless. Technique is conceptive, constructive, and executive, and the beginner should exercise his latent powers in each department.

The technique of conception is practiced unconsciously by anyone who seeks to find a story for writing, but exercise of the conceptive faculty should not be limited to the times when you desire actually to write. You should form a habit of thinking creatively, of mentally shaping into stories the material offered by observation, thought, and reading. If this is done, and notes kept of your promising ideas, you will have on hand constantly considerable amount of material, and you will not be forced to waste time in casting about for an idea when the spirit moves you to write. Moreover, I think most essentially feeble stories are stories conceived and thrown together on the spur of the moment as the writer sits and looks at a sheet of white paper, and if you have five, ten, or a hundred stories more or less completely blocked out in your files or in your mind, you can choose for writing one fitted to your mood and also worth the writing. It is almost impossible to judge the worth of an idea immediately after it is conceived; by separating the conceptive and executive processes you will be led to avoid much waste labor in developing what is essentially weak.

A more mechanical exercise of the conceptive faculty, but a very valuable one, is to shape and re-shape what I will term abstract stories. As stated, a story or plot is a dramatic conflict, showing the opposition of man and nature, man and man, or opposed traits in the same man. The process of developing an abstract story is to select from a list of human traits and motives two or more which present an essential opposition, such as avarice and generosity, then to seek to give the basic abstract opposition most effective concrete fictional expression by devising persons to be invested with the traits and by devising a course of action to show the persons in conflict under the influence of the traits. Thus, taking the traits of avarice and generosity, husband and wife, for instance, may each be endowed with one, and a course of events devised to give the necessary conflict between them expression in action. The writer of fiction who will perform this exercise now and then, as opportunity offers, not only will chance upon much valuable material; he also will acquire a firm grasp on plot, the story-essence of a story, and will be led to realize that mere complication or ingenuity is the least of a plot. The exercise is valuable because it is the only possible way to exercise the conceptive faculty in detail. A story-idea gained from observation usually is seized as a whole, but a story-idea gained by manipulating human traits and motives is built up from nothing by combining its elements. The story built up in this way probably will involve a social conflict, a conflict between man and man, rather than between man and nature or opposed traits in the same man, because the opportunity for combination is greatest in the first case.

The next point is how to exercise the constructive faculty, how to practice constructive technique, and here you have many resources, only a few of which need be mentioned.

In the first place, you can study the ways the masters have put together their stories; this, though not quite practice, is almost as valuable, if conscientiously and properly done, and is a necessary basis for practice. For obvious reasons your laboratory analysis of fiction must confine itself largely to the short story, though you can go through the process mentally and less thoroughly in reading longer work.

Provide yourself with a collection of short stories in one volume and a few from current magazines that you think good, also with a number of different colored inks or crayons. Read a story through a couple of times, that you may know definitely what it is, and then read it again critically, underlining every word, except those which serve only to forward the progress of the story as a mere course of events, and striking out every word or passage which seems to you inessential to the whole. Use a single color to mark a single process, and neglect the superficial character of the words, whether they be narrative, descriptive, or serve to embody dialogue. Thus, dialogue may serve to forward the progress of the story as a course of events, in which case it should not be underlined, may serve to characterize, in which case it should be underlined with the color taken to mark characterization, or may serve to touch in setting, in which case it should be underlined with the color taken to mark any passage where the author strives to touch in the environment. It will not be profitable to be too minute, to employ too many colors; the matters you will require to make visually distinctive are not many. Straight narration, including the whole physical progress of the story, whether detailed or general, requires no color; characterization, including the process of individualizing a person as to his nature, as to his appearance, and as to his speech, requires one; the process of touching in setting requires another; the process of preparing a reader emotionally for succeeding events requires a third; the process of intensifying atmosphere--if the story is of atmosphere--requires a fourth. And mark each passage in accordance with its main purpose or function, for many passages will subserve more than one end.

A number of stories treated in this way will be most profitable to study. In particular, each one will display graphically and yet in detail wherein lies its value as a fiction, whether in its people, in its events, or in its setting, and will show plainly the cunning blending of elements which is at once the fact and the result of the technique of construction.

In the second place, you can exercise your faculty of construction by closing the decorated book or magazine and trying to reproduce two or three of the stories you have studied. In doing this no effort should be made to transcribe from memory; realize, rather, the basic theme of each story, the general character of its people, and the main course of its events, and strive to produce as effective a thing from such materials as did the author. The very great value of this sort of practice work lies in the fact that you have a positive standard of comparison ready for your story when it is written. Place yours and the original side by side, and you can see precisely where you have failed, if you feel that you have. In examining your own work, look to the matter of expression less than to the matter of construction; see if you have realized the necessity to build character here, to touch in setting there, even if your attempt to do so has failed in a degree through lack of executive deftness.

In the third place, the faculty of construction can be exercised in original work, and to do so does not necessarily involve writing a complete story. Ten stories can be blocked out and roughly shaped in the time it would take to write one, and the more rapid process is preferable for the beginner because it will teach him that the first conception is not usually the best conception. Write thousand-word outlines of ten stories as you have opportunity, put them aside for a while, and then see if you cannot re-shape their people, re-devise and re-order their events, to make them more effective, more interesting fictions. In blocking out a story do not state happenings merely; indicate your people's natures, their looks, their speech, and indicate where you would touch in setting, depict character by action, speech, or description, or hint to a reader the emotional quality of what is to come.

It will take a very real degree of courage and perseverance to carry out a course of practice in conceptive and constructive technique long enough to accomplish its end. But if you will lay out for yourself along the lines indicated here such a course of study and practice, and then will perform the necessary work, you will certainly gain more insight into the essential processes of fiction than you can acquire merely by accepting at face value such story-ideas as may come to you and by writing them out one after the other. In particular, you will acquire the faculty to re-mould and re-shape your material, instead of seizing each idea too uncritically. And that is half the battle, for it is precisely the attitude and habit of the professional as contrasted with the attitude and habit of the amateur.

Little need be said as to the best way to practice the technique of execution. When you find or devise a story that you feel is truly worth the writing, write it as best you can, after careful and directed planning. You can also try to reproduce the work of others, and again the great value of this sort of practice lies in your having a positive standard of comparison ready for your work when it is written. Or you can practice piecemeal, if you have the necessary enthusiasm, can go about with a notebook in your pocket, as did Stevenson, and try to precipitate in telling words the casual impressions that come to you. At all events, write from a primary spectacle, whether of the imagination or of actuality, and try to reproduce something definite in your words rather than to string together vociferous but meaningless phrases.

APPENDIX B

SUGGESTIONS FOR TEACHERS

The instructor in fiction technique has my hearty sympathy. His must be all the woes of manuscript reader, editor, and friend of the author rolled into one.

It would serve no purpose to list here the inherent difficulties of the business of teaching the art of the story, such as that made by the fact that the instructor must deal with a number of individuals differing not only in point of powers but in point of earnestness. But there is reason to note one thing. The aim of the course should not be academic. It should not be allowed to degenerate into a course in the appreciation of fiction, the most constant danger to which lecturing and abstract discussion on fiction technique is subject. The student should not be permitted for a moment, even, to become merely the appraising connoisseur rather than the humble practitioner of the art. Such shifting of viewpoint is fatal.

History can be taught piecemeal; so can mathematics and a hundred other subjects; but the art of fiction cannot, even if it is teachable at all. The one great secret of the art of fiction is the art of construction, and it will profit a class little to assign short exercises in handling specific elements of a story, the elements of personality, event, or setting. The whole secret of fiction writing is to blend all these matters into an interesting and significant whole, and the only way to seek or impart it is to construct and write or to require the class to construct and write whole stories. And the proper use of a text-book, aside from general study by the class and the discussion of reading-assignments, is for reference in criticising the stories that have been written by and read before the class.

The general aim of the teacher should be to keep the student writing, but writing with a definite aim. The simplest sort of story to write, of course, is the story of plain action, and, concomitantly with discussion of plot, it will be advisable to outline for writing two or three relatively simple stories. Choose these from magazines not too recent; give the class the main course of events, the people, and the setting to work from; and read the original story when reading and discussing the work of the class, for a fixed standard of comparison is extremely valuable. As the course proceeds, more complicated stories can be outlined for reproduction, and from the first it will be useful to require the student to hand in with the story he has written an outline of a story of the same general type, but original with himself. After telling the class where they may find each story they have unconsciously worked upon, state its chief values as succinctly as possible, and point out wherein each student's work has or has not realized such values, and also indicate any value in the class-work not present in the original. Incidentally, point out the merits and defects of the original outlines handed in with the complete stories. Of course, the whole business must be highly selective; discuss fully a little of the best work, rather than say a few inadequate words as to each student's.

As the opportunity offers, it will be advisable to engage in oral story-building with the class. State two or more traits or motives that involve a conflict, and then call upon individuals to outline a story presenting the dramatic opposition. Or assign for reading a particular newspaper of particular date, and require individuals first to state what news item seems to offer the best suggestion for a story and then to outline the story suggested by it. This sort of work is extremely valuable in itself and to keep the class from forgetting that they are trying to learn the secret to find, develop, and write good stories.

Finally, as to the matter of original work. When the student is asked completely to develop and write a story of his own, it will be best to let him work in any direction he pleases, rather than to require him to show some particular type of story. The matter of type can be touched on in discussion. And, to emphasize the importance of construction, it will be well to require submission of a completely developed outline of each story before writing, also to discuss and re-shape these with the class, stating their outstanding values and weaknesses. The general endeavor should be to impress upon each student the fact that the material of fiction is infinitely plastic, so that he should shape and re-shape his conception before writing until he is certain that he has exhausted its possibilities. The matter of verbal execution should not be given any great emphasis simply because it cannot be treated in class with any great profit. The instructor can say that this passage is bad and that good, hardly more. But a poorly constructed story can be taken apart and rearranged more effectively, and the process can be grasped by the student because it is somewhat mechanical. Furthermore, the technique of fiction and the technique of verbal expression are different matters, and the instructor in the first will be wise if he leaves the matter of nice expression to the instructor in the second. Of course, obvious verbal crudities in class work should be pointed out.

The real service that a course in technique can perform for an earnest student is threefold. It can lead him to realize keenly that the aim of fiction is to interest, that this aim can be attained most completely by presentment of a human conflict or problem, and that adequate fictional presentment of such a conflict, problem, or plot is to be achieved only by a cunning blending of the elements of personality, event, and setting. That course in fiction technique is the best course which does the most to open the eyes of the student to the essential nature of the art and most definitely shows him the matters he must bear in mind in putting together a story. If he leaves the hands of the instructor with a knowledge of the fundamentals of construction, the instructor will have done well.

APPENDIX C

TO WRITE A STORY

CONCEPTIVE TECHNIQUE

(1) Find your story, a fiction exhibiting personality in conflict with its environment, with another personality, or with itself.

(2) Realize precisely what constitutes the plot--what opposition between what forces of personality or nature is the influence which gives fictional significance to the sequence of incidents or events that have first come to mind as the story.

(3) Realize the characters, major and minor; that is, discover just what attributes of theirs must be developed by direct statement or by inference from action in order to give the plot an adequate, concrete, specific presentment.

(4) Having grasped the plot, the essence of the story, and all its implications, and having realized the individual people who alone can present it convincingly, scrutinize closely the events of the story, as they first were conceived, to discover whether their rearrangement or entire change may not result in a combination presenting the plot more adequately and more forcefully than the combination that first suggested the plot.

(5) Having blocked out the fiction thus, consider and determine from whose viewpoint it may best be told.

CONSTRUCTIVE TECHNIQUE

(1) Arrange the significant events of the story in sequence with a due but not forced regard to the necessities of climax, that is, increasing tensity of the plot-struggle.

(2) Consider how best to link together the major happenings, and endeavor to devise and manipulate the minor events so that they may serve a double purpose, first, to lead from major event to major event, second, to develop the characters; remember that a story is a physical presentment of a spiritual thing, the plot-struggle, and that personality should function in the small as well as in the great events.

(3) Determine precisely the ending toward which to work, and let it coincide with the termination of the plot-struggle.

(4) Apportion the length of the story among its several happenings, those main events which give physical presentment to the plot and so incidentally develop or exhibit character, and those minor events which only develop character or merely aid the physical progress of the story.

EXECUTIVE TECHNIQUE

(1) Determine the style or manner of writing for which the story calls, and maintain it when once pitched upon.

(2) Write vividly only where emphasis is called for by the event; do not be afraid to narrate in general terms where the story does not call for detail; and think less of the word than of the thing you visualize. Let the story flow before your eye and sound in your ear as to an actual observer or listener; transcribe only what he would see, hear, smell or think under the influence of the particular circumstances.

(3) Avoid all artificialities, in description, in the speech of characters, even in their names and in the undue repetition of verbs of utterance--"he said," "she said."

(4) Re-write, or touch up in manuscript.

(5) After a week or more, when other matters have shaken the mind from the ruts it has worn for itself in planning and writing the story, re-read it critically to discover whether it is worth-while and whether it cannot be improved.

INDEX

Action, 105, 139, 146, 148.

Action, in novel and short story, 190.

Adventure, 32.

Alice in Wonderland, 203.

Almayer's Folly, 161, 163.

Anna Karenina, 192, 195.

Artificiality, 85.

Artistry, 99, 187, 188, 206.

Atmosphere Definition, 152. Atmospheric value, 154. Tone of story, 156. Preparation for climax, 156. Examples, 158, 159. Story of atmosphere, 160. Short story, 161. Setting, 161. Dramatic value, 164.

Atmosphere, short story of, 166, 168.

Atmosphere, story of, 45.

Atmosphere, style of story of, 93.

Anglo-Saxon, 130.

Austen, Jane, 94, 182, 189.

Balzac, Honore de, 54, 88, 98, 114.

Best Short Stories of 1915, The, 76.

Brevity, of short story, 178, 179.

Bronte, Emily, 94.

Brown, Alice, 154.

Burnett, Frances H., 152.

Call of the Wild, The, 198.

Carroll, Lewis, 203.

Cask of Amontillado, The, 168.

Cervantes, 208.

Character, 35, 36.

Characterization, 74, 128. Three modes, 136. Dialogue, 136. Action, 136. Description or direct statement, 136. Aims of characterization, 138. To show nature of person, 138. To show appearance, 138. Character and plot, 139. Characterization by speech, 140. Characterization by statement, 144. Characterization by action, 147.

Characterization in novel, 190.

Characterization in short story, 172, 173.

Character sketch, 39.

Character story, 40.

Character, style of story of, 93.

Classes, speech of, 143.

Clearness, in description, 119.

Climax, 50, 57, 157.

Cloister and the Hearth, The, 191.

Coherence, of novel, 190.

Coherence, of short story, 179.

Color, 119.

Commonplace, story of, 97.

Complication, as element of plot, 51.

Complication, story of, 42.

Compression, 44, 169, 181.

Condescension, 30.

Conrad, Joseph, 161, 162.

Conservatism, portrayal of, 26.

Construction, 16, 64.

Conte, 43.

Contrast, 123, 157.

Copperfield, David, 117, 191, 192.

Cousin Pons, 54, 55.

Creative process, order, 37.

Crime and Punishment, 32.

Critical faculty, 23.

Criticism, 34.

Culture, 35.

Current Questions, 25.

Dawn of a Tomorrow, The, 152.

Defoe, Daniel, 98, 208.

Descent into the Maelstrom, A, 84.

Description, 105. Interest, 107. Secondary function, 108. Distribution, 108. Story of atmosphere, 109. Effectiveness, 109. Description of persons, 110. Example, 111. Analysis, 112. Accuracy, 114. Mechanical limitations, 116. Use of all senses, 117. Description of setting, 118. Two objects, 119. Use of all senses, 120. Order of details, 122. Contrast, 123.

Design, importance of, 13.

Dialect, 127, 128.

Dialogue (see Speech), 105, 136.

Dialogue, in relation to characterization, 140.

Dickens, Charles, 28, 92, 117, 141, 142, 191, 192, 193.

Diction, 102, 130, 131.

Don Quixote, 208.

Dostoievsky, Fyodor, 32, 203, 208.

Douglas, George, 58, 94.

Doyle, Sir A. Conan, 83, 204.

Drama, conventions of, 170.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, 56, 182, 200.

Dumas, Alexandre, 31, 92.

Dunn, Finley Peter (Mr. Dooley), 134.

Ebb-Tide, The, 82, 89, 91, 145, 149, 188, 191, 192.

Elements, blending of, 105, 106.

Eliot, George, 31, 88.

Emotion, 25.

Emphasis, 39, 40, 77, 101, 110.

End of story, 72.

Events, order of, 65.

Events, secondary, 103.

Exposition, 85.

Fall of the House of Usher, The, 44, 161, 162, 167, 207.

Fantasy, influence on style, 92, 93.

Fiction, theory of, 197.

Fielding, Henry, 28, 192.

Figures of speech, 100, 114, 115.

Flaubert, Gustave, 27.

Frankenstein, 189.

Freeman, Mary E. Wilkins, 154.

Galsworthy, John, 88.

Genius, cultivation of, 23.

Greek, 130.

Hardy, Thomas, 88, 161.

Harrison, Henry Sydnor, 133.

Harte, Bret, 53, 59.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 29, 32, 58, 92, 93, 182, 203, 204.

Henry, O., 82.

House of the Dead, The, 58, 203.

House with the Green Shutters, The, 58, 94.

Hurst, Fannie, 76.

Hugo, Victor, 28, 52, 109, 192, 204.

Idiot, The, 208.

Il Penseroso, 94.

Imagination, 29.

Imagination and dialogue, 129.

Imitation, 33.

Information, 24.

Interest, 34, 35, 107, 108, 176, 185, 203.

Introduction, 67, 81, 82.

James, Henry, 56.

Jean Christophe, 28, 192.

Journal of the Plague Year, A, 98.

Kidnapped, 53, 96.

Kipling, Rudyard, 44, 68, 82, 99, 120, 198.

L'Allegro, 94.

La Peau de Chagrin, 98.

Latin, 130.

Legeia, 167.

Length, 86.

Les Miserables, 28, 192, 204.

Literalness, in dialogue, 126, 127.

Lodging for the Night, A, 110, 137, 174, 175.

London, Jack, 71, 75, 198.

Lost World, The, 204.

Macbeth, 157.

Mannerisms in dialogue, 143, 144.

Markheim, 44, 55, 56, 159, 169, 179.

Master of Ballantrae, The, 91.

Material, accessibility of, 22.

Matter, choice of Selection, 30. Sincerity, 31. Adventure, 32. Common problems, 32. Originality, 33. Novelty and worth, 33. Elements of literature, 34. Interest, 34. Elements of interest, 35.

Matter, significance of, 205.

Maupassant, Guy de, 44, 105, 168.

Meredith, George, 92.

Merry Men, The, 153, 155, 161, 162.

Milton, John, 94.

Monsieur Beaucaire, 71.

Narration, 105, 106, 107, 136, 147.

Narration, constructive technique of Importance, 64. Plot and situation, 65. Spiritual values, 66. Order of events, 67. Introduction, 67. Primary and secondary events, 68. Climax, 70. Naturalness, 70. Preparation, 70, 73. End of story, 72. Proportion, 76. General Considerations, 78.

Narration, executive technique of Mode of narration, 80. First person narration, 81. Variation, 81. Advantages of mode, 81. Disadvantages, 82. Plausibility, 84. Third person narration, 84. Advantages, 84. Avoidance of artificiality, 85. Length, 86. Viewpoint, 86. Attitude of author, 88. Style, 90. Congruity of manner, 92. Story of action, 92. Story of character, 93. Method of narration, 97. Story of commonplace, 97. Story of bizarre, 98. Vividness, 98. Suspense, 100. Emphasis and suppression, 101. Expansion and vividness, 101. Primary and secondary events, 102. Transition, 104. Blending of elements, 105.

Naturalness, 143.

Naturalness of dialogue, 126.

Nature, conflict with as plot, 52.

Necklace, The, 105, 168.

New Arabian Nights, The, 91, 93.

New England, 154, 155.

Note on Realism, A, 13, 90, 91.

Notre Dame de Paris, 109.

Novel, 38, 54, 87. Novel and romance, 182. Romanticism and realism, 183. Technique of forms, 185. Incoherence of novel, 186. Novel as medium for self-expression, 186. Interpolation of comment, 187. Simplicity, 188. Inclusiveness of novel, 190. Personality, 190. Action, 191. Length, 191. Initial idea, 192. Singleness of story, 193. Social emphasis, 196.

Novelty, 33.

Observation, 24.

Our Mutual Friend, 192, 193.

Outcasts of Poker Flat, The, 53, 59.

Personality, 198.

Persons, description of, 110.

Philosophy of Composition, The, 167.

Philosophy of fiction, 202.

Pickwick Papers, The, 92, 193.

Plausibility, 68, 69, 103.

Plot, 139, 148, 189, 197, 207, 208. Definition, 48, 50. Character and plot, 49. Dramatic value, 50. Complication, 51. Interest, 51. Plot as problem, 52. Three basic themes, 52. Conflict between man and nature, 52. Conflict between man and man, 54. Conflict within the man, 55. Arrangement, 56. Climax, 57. Major situations, 60. Climax and plot, 61. Situation, 61.

Plot for short story, 168, 169.

Poe, Edgar Allan, 44, 51, 84, 93, 161, 162, 167, 168, 169, 170, 180, 207.

Point of view, 86, 116.

Polti, Georges, 62.

Practice, 96.

Prejudice, 26.

Preparation, 73.

Preparation of reader for climax, 156.

Pride and Prejudice, 189.

Problem in fiction, 52.

Problem novel, 187.

Problem, story or plot as, 50.

Proportion, 76, 102.

Provincialism, 26.

Psychological story, 55.

Reade, Charles, 191.

Reading, 26.

Realism, 182, 189, 199.

Reporting and literature, 45.

Return of the Native, The, 161.

Rhetoric, 95, 109, 110.

Richardson, Samuel, 86.

Robinson Crusoe, 98, 208.

Rolland, Romain, 28, 192.

Romance, 182.

Romanticism, 182, 199.

Scarlet Letter, The, 29, 32, 92, 182, 203, 204.

Scott, Sir Walter, 52, 88.

Sea-Wolf, The, 71, 75, 76.

Selection, 22.

Self-culture, 24.

Sense and Sensibility, 182.

Senses, employment in description, 117, 120, 121.

Seriousness, 31.

Setting, 152.

Setting, description of, 118.

Sex, 33.

Shakespeare, William, 157.

Ship That Found Herself, The, 198.

Short story, 18, 38, 43, 87, 193. Definition, 165. Two types, 166. Dramatic short story, 166. Atmospheric short story, 166. Origins, 167. Unity and singleness of effect, 168. General technique, 172. Characterization, 172. Interest and simplicity, 176. Complexity, 177. Coherence, 179. Compression, 181.

Significance of matter, 205.

Simplicity, 188.

Simplicity of plot for short story, 176.

Sincerity, 31.

Situation (see Plot).

Situation and dialogue, 128.

Social question, 26.

Speech, 105. Potency, 124. Mechanical distribution, 125. Naturalness, 126. Direction, 126. Dialect, 127. Situation, 128. Resources to meet demands of situation, 130. Style, 132. Verbs of utterance, 133. Speech for its own sake, 134. Creative process, 135.

Spelling in dialogue, 143.

Stage, conventions of, 170.

Stevenson, Robert Louis, 13, 39, 44, 52, 53, 55, 56, 82, 89, 90, 93, 96, 99, 110, 137, 139, 144, 145, 149, 153, 155, 158, 161, 162, 169, 174, 179, 182, 188, 191, 192, 200.

Story types, 165, 166. Conception and execution, 37. Utility to know types, 38. Novel and romance, 38. Short story, 38. The three types, 39. Emphasis, 39. Three elements of story, 39. Character, 40. Incident, 42. Atmosphere, 45. Other types, 46. Short Story and compression, 44.

Story, distinguished from tale, 49.

Story, ways to create, 39.

Style, 82, 90, 97, 137.

Suppression, 101.

Suspense, 100, 101.

Sympathy, 88, 148, 149.

Tale, 39, 43, 49, 165, 207.

Tanglewood Tales, 93.

Tarkington, Booth, 71.

T. B., 76.

Technique, natural approach to, 16.

Technique, object of, 51.

Thackeray, William Makepeace, 28, 54, 58, 187, 191, 192.

Thematic story, 40.

Theory of fiction Story and tale, 197. Realism the method, 199. Realism the artistic dogma, 199. Short story, 200. Interest, 201. Power of real problems of life, 203. Test of merit, 204. Aim of executive artistry, 206. Verisimilitude, 207. Significance of plot, 208.

Thirty-Six Dramatic Situations, The, 62.

Thrawn Janet, 158.

Toilers of the Sea, The, 52.

Tolstoi, Leo, 192, 195.

Tom Jones, 28, 192.

Tone, 82, 132.

Tragedy, 157.

Transition, 103, 104, 105.

Trollope, Anthony, 182.

Turgenieff, Ivan, 146.

Ugliness, 89.

Unities, dramatic, 168.

Unity of short story, 201.

Vanity Fair, 54, 58, 187.

Verisimilitude, 84, 92, 106, 107, 115, 118, 119, 120, 123, 143, 207.

Verne, Jules, 204.

Victorian novelists, 191.

Viewpoint, 86, 116.

Virginians, The, 191, 192.

Vividness, 98, 101, 110, 114, 119.

V. V.'s Eyes, 134.

War and Peace, 192.

Warden, The, 182.

Weir of Hermiston, 91.

Wells, H. G., 204.

Wit, in dialogue, 127.

Without Benefit of Clergy, 44, 68, 120.

Worth of matter, 33.

Writer of fiction. Critical faculty, 22. Cultivation of genius, 23. Observation and information, 24. Open-mindedness, 25. Attitude toward life, 25. Prejudice and provincialism, 26. Social question, 26. Reading, 26. Imagination, 29.

Wuthering Heights, 94.

Transcriber's Note:

Spelling and punctuation have been preserved as in the original publication except for the following changes:

Page 24

less obvious, but, curiously enough, is is _changed to_ less obvious, but, curiously enough, is

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familiartiy with life, which cannot be brushed up _changed to_ familiarity with life, which cannot be brushed up

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Christrophe," "War and Peace," much of Thackeray's _changed to_ Christophe," "War and Peace," much of Thackeray's

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and deficiences before writing is necessary to make _changed to_ and deficiencies before writing is necessary to make

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Incident--Archtypal Character--Short Story and _changed to_ Incident--Archetypal Character--Short Story and

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archtype of all stories. An historical analysis _changed to_ archetype of all stories. An historical analysis

which stresses the bare incident, is archtypal of _changed to_ which stresses the bare incident, is archetypal of

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distincly social in nature. The possibilities for the _changed to_ distinctly social in nature. The possibilities for the

Balzac and and Thackeray are supreme masters in _changed to_ Balzac and Thackeray are supreme masters in

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Polti, in "The Thirty-Six Dramatic Situations, _changed to_ Polti, in "The Thirty-Six Dramatic Situations,"

is a word so abused that it even might be advisible _changed to_ is a word so abused that it even might be advisable

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hapenings; a plot is some human struggle _changed to_ happenings; a plot is some human struggle

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writers--one may indulge in a little philisophical _changed to_ writers--one may indulge in a little philosophical

Page 72

selection and ordering of its secendary events _changed to_ selection and ordering of its secondary events

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lost derelicts of people move. Their speach is _changed to_ lost derelicts of people move. Their speech is

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analytical of more than one charactcer the writer _changed to_ analytical of more than one character the writer

lays bare the souls of all charactcers instead of _changed to_ lays bare the souls of all characters instead of

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virture of each type may be utilized _changed to_ virtue of each type may be utilized

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omniscent viewpoint may carry the story _changed to_ omniscient viewpoint may carry the story

idiosyncracies, and to make _changed to_ idiosyncrasies, and to make

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will be a be a glorified and persecuted _changed to_ will be a glorified and persecuted

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alloting the space of a story before writing, as has been _changed to_ allotting the space of a story before writing, as has been

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half fallen back, and made a strange excresence on either _changed to_ half fallen back, and made a strange excrescence on either

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strict if unconcious regard for the laws of _changed to_ strict if unconscious regard for the laws of

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a story involves a charactcer from such a district _changed to_ a story involves a character from such a district

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feeling and appreciation that any reader. _changed to_ feeling and appreciation than any reader.

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"'A lady stepped on her Junebug,'" _changed to_ "'A lady stepped on her Junebug.'"

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influencial in numerous directions in a story. _changed to_ influential in numerous directions in a story.

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it may be difficult to do so unobstrusively _changed to_ it may be difficult to do so unobtrusively

Page 143

"Yuh" for "you" is in instance. We all "yuh" _changed to_ "Yuh" for "you" is an instance. We all "yuh"

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will have some totality of emontional _changed to_ will have some totality of emotional

Page 167

Poe produced such stories as "Legeia" _changed to_ Poe produced such stories as "Ligeia"

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connotations of the state _changed to_ connotations of the stage

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the writter's resources--again of course _changed to_ the writer's resources--again of course

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thou and words, though it begin in a _changed to_ thousand words, though it begin in a

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and the metomorphosis of Dr. Jekyll _changed to_ and the metamorphosis of Dr. Jekyll

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laying a false emphasis on its pormissible scope _changed to_ laying a false emphasis on its permissible scope

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Your, first, second, tenth, or _changed to_ Your first, second, tenth, or

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obvious reasons your laboratory anaylsis of _changed to_ obvious reasons your laboratory analysis of

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connoiseur rather than the humble practitioner _changed to_ connoisseur rather than the humble practitioner

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but writing with an definite aim _changed to_ but writing with a definite aim

state its chief values as succintly as _changed to_ state its chief values as succinctly as