Young writers often regard editors as their worst enemies, and seem to think that they take delight in returning manuscripts, when, as a matter of fact, good composition and well-written manuscript are like nuggets of gold to them. They are always hunting for something distinctly good, something strong, original in plan, and with real merit, which will be helpful, and will attract attention. They return unavailable manuscripts with a feeling of disappointment at failure to find what is sought, mingled with disgust at the wretched quality of the offerings of unskilled, untrained, careless writers.
The art of expressing oneself on paper is one of the grandest, but one of the most difficult to acquire, and yet people who would not think of attempting to play on a piano in public until they had practised for weeks, or even months, will sit down, and in a few hours throw off an article, send it to a leading publication, and then be surprised when it is returned. To attain the power to express your hearths longings, your soul’s aspirations, to enable you to voice your hopes and aspirations, to describe life as you see it, is the work of years of hard and persistent practice, just as musical excellence is.
The editors of most magazines return with thanks about ninety-nine articles and stories out of every hundred submitted. The young writer cannot understand why his article is returned, as it seems so complete to him, so well-balanced, and his fine thoughts are so beautifully expressed, but the experienced editor sees that the novice has been writing in a circle; he notes the narrowness of experience, the paucity of thought, the poverty of language, the limitations of vocabulary. He sees how little the writer has travelled or experienced, how ignorant he is of human nature, of the philosophy of life. Many of the articles sent to magazines would disgrace a high school pupil. They lack style and continuity of thought, and are without point or purpose. The great majority lack individuality.
Many of the manuscripts returned show evidence of ability, of earnestness, of real merit, but they are too often written in a loose-jointed, slipshod manner. Others are evidently produced without enthusiasm, knowledge, or confidence, simply to gain financial profit if possible. They show signs of haste and carelessness and are written without thoroughly considering or pre-adjusting the material. Editors are too busy to rewrite articles, no matter how promising the material, and so must reject good matter if badly presented. Half-heartedness and lack of purpose characterize some of the articles. Some lack thought and are mere word-pictures. Many of them lack plan and arrangement. Such are a mere jumble of incidents and commonplace expressions. A great many young writers of ability fail from this lack of order in their thoughts and writings. They jumble everything together, helter-skelter, all in a pile. Many of them have good ideas, but, not knowing how to differentiate them, they are spoiled by the manner of expressing them. Such writers seem to have little idea of logical sequence. Their articles have no introduction, middle or end, and yet they expect their work to be accepted and read with interest and applause A dry goods merchant might as well expect to sell goods by tumbling them helter-skelter all about his store, regardless of order or arrangement, with shoes and thread, silks and groceries all mixed, on the theory that a customer would find what he wished for.
Comparatively few writers have learned the art of condensation. They string their thoughts out till it is difficult to find the trace of an idea. You can drive a horse and cart through many of their sentences they are so loosely constructed. Such writers do not realize that even an inch of space in a large publication is worth many dollars, and that condensation, clearness, and terseness of expression are everything to a good editor.
The greatest writers economize most of the reader's attention. They do not leave anything for the reader to do that they can possibly do for him. They do not cover up their thought by useless verbiage, or by circumlocution. It lies transparent on the surface in clear, simple, limpid language. Good composition is easy reading; the thought is not obscured by big words or by involved sentences. Readers tire of most authors trying to find out what they are driving at. No man likes to work hard reading a book. One cannot afford to dig out thought from verbose language, intricate and interminable sentences — this is the work of the author, not of the reader. If the writer has not served his ideas in an attractive, fascinating style, if he does not hold the reader irresistibly to his thought, he has failed. Many young writers mistake language for ideas, quantity for quality. Many modern writers would fill a whole library trying to express the thoughts that Emerson crowded into a few volumes.
Dairymen tell us that in order to keep butter sweet indefinitely, every particle of foreign matter, every bit of buttermilk which could possibly become rancid must be worked out of it; so ideas and thoughts, to become immortal, must be stripped of every bit of superfluous expression. Language must be simple and transparent; ideas must be expressed directly in the fewest possible words if you wish your work to live.
If a young writer would only start out holding constantly in mind the determination to save the reader's time, to economize his attention by cutting out every useless word, reducing every sentence to the fewest possible words, condensing everywhere, he would not only get a most helpful lesson in composition, but also his articles and books would be read and praised. The young writer will find splendid practice in rewriting many times an article or chapter, even after he thinks it is well done, trying each time to express the thought more forcibly, in simpler language, in less space, and still without loss of ideas. He will be much helped in this process if he will imagine that he must send his article by cable and pay a quarter of a dollar for every word. He will be surprised to see how many words he can spare, how many repetitions he has made. He will be surprised and pleased to see how effectively he can express an idea in more concise sentences by continual recasting.
No one can write with power who is not full of his subject, completely permeated with it. Readers can tell very quickly whether you are a specialist, whether you speak with authority born of long study and investigation, or whether you speak in echoes of another writer's thought. If your knowledge of the subject you treat is limited you cannot conceal the fact, your ignorance will show through as bread shows through butter too thinly spread. Do not think that you can read a little about the matter, and just touch the surface of your subject here and there, and thus captivate your readers. You will do nothing of the kind; every sentence that you write will indicate the superficiality of your knowledge, the meagreness of your study, and the poverty of your thought.
Enthusiasm, a requisite for interesting, forceful composition, is impossible to a superficial student. To be carried away with a subject, to have a soul all aglow with interest and enthusiasm, you must know it through and through, and you must come to its expression in the spirit of a lover and not that of a slave. Write because you love to write, and not because you have to, because you have something to say and not because you wish to say something. You must feel a mission to write before you can say anything worth reading. You cannot make your reader feel what you do not first feel yourself. If you are not stirred to the very depth of your being by your subject, if your feeling does not tingle on the very tip of your pen, if it does not flow in your ink, you cannot expect your reader to be moved. He will be cold as an icicle if you are indifferent. You cannot rivet his attention upon a page which you wrote without intense feeling.
What a difference there is in the composition of authors! I have just been reading a bit of writing, every word of which seemed like a live wire, full of electricity, running over with energy. Every line sent a thrill through me as I read it. I went over it again and again, and each time I felt the shock. Every perusal was a fresh tonic, rousing the mental faculties, stirring the soul to its centre. I could feel every experience of the writer. Every thrill of joy, every blow of sorrow, everything which had entered into his life seemed to quiver in his words. The whole page seemed to be throbbing with human interest, warm with sympathy, pulsating with life. I could almost write the writer's life from his pages, for they seemed to be a part of him, a panorama of his experiences. Every sentence seemed a cross-section of some part of the author's life. I could see the man stand out on his pages almost as clearly as if he really stood before me.