Elinor Glyn System of Writing (1922)

( Originally Published 1922 )

Writing Short Stories: What Knowledge Must I Have To Succeed?

Is Book Education Essential?—I wish I could proclaim the following to the whole world as my audience. It is such good news to all who are held down by doubt that every-one should know about it. Let me state with the utmost emphasis at my command that thousands of writers have succeeded and are succeeding despite the lack of a good education or of any education at all, as it is known in the common sense. It is a matter of fact that a majority of writers, mod-ern and ancient, have not been scholars or learned men in any theoretical sense. And it is absolutely true that college-bred people cannot succeed one wit quicker or easier than a person with very much less academic education.

Nature a Splendid Teacher.—Of course, if one wished to be a doctor, a professor, a chemist, or a lawyer, he perforce must be well educated in one of those particular lines. The literary aspirant, on the other hand, has only to sit at the feet of nature, in its material and human aspects—listening carefully to what it has to say. Literature in all its phases deals with people and events, while a college education can teach you no more about the vital factors of human nature than you can learn daily in your own sphere of existence, be it large or small. True, a study of history may teach one much about the fashion of motives and emotions that have moved men to do certain things, yet, is it not true that since the world moves in a cycle, history constantly is repeating herself ?

'Why a College Is Not the Best Place to Study Life.-A college education is of little or no use whatever in helping one to become a successful writer, simply because the college student does not have the opportunity, in his rather isolated and secluded and artificial life, of rubbing elbows with struggling, rejoicing, and throbbing multitudes engaged in all their world-wide battles—of love, success, redemption—on and on without end. It is by no means the story containing the most facts or knowledge that is the most successful; an l article is most marketable, of course, when it is authoritative and when the writer has at his finger-tips a mass of facts and anecdotes that he may choose at random for the purpose of impressing his topic upon the readers' mind, whereas the materials that make up a story customarily are fictitious and theoretical learning very rarely enters into one. Usually, the college student has very little occasion to learn enough about the real interesting phases of human nature that should serve as the themes for worth-while stories. A man who has his way paid through college and who is engaged in the rather artifical activities of college life, has not the time, the inclination, or the opportunity to see and experience life in its actual colors. It is inevitable that, taking two young men, one an attendant at some university, the other just an ordinary individual engaged in one of the innumerable struggles for existence, that from the life of him who is out meeting people, in solving problems, and overcoming the obstacles of actual, concrete life, would be thrown off more vital sparks of truth that would serve as good plots or ideas for stories, than from the study, the athletics, the sports and the pleasures of the college-bred man.

Getting from Life What You Put into It.—Some time ago one of America's leading women's publication had a contest to which several hundred college-bred girls were urged to submit stories. Large cash offers were made for the best stories and the magazine agreed to use any others that were suitable to its policy. Much to the astonishment of the editorial staff, not a single one of the stories proved accept-able. One of the editors, in commenting on the fact, stated that the stories all showed a deplorable lack of knowledge concerning human nature. The stories, while excellently written, were too artifical, unnatural, and uninteresting. And all because very few of these girls had felt keenly enough the truths of human nature. Life had left none of its tracings upon them—they had been leading sheltered and sequestered lives, and the things they wrote of were not vital to them. They had not learned that to reproduce life interestingly, one must live life interestingly—that to write of love—not the mawkish or sentimental kind, but of the love that moves the soul—one must have loved deeply and sincerely. Moreover, most of these young ladies were not even in a position to observe the seething masses about them—were not even interested in them—did not have occasion to use them at first hand. It is not necessary, by any means, that the whole gauntlet of human experiences be run before one can write successfully of various emotions; on the other hand, it is not possible to photograph a running brook and to develop from the negative the picture of a mother with a child in her arms. If a person has not engaged actually in the struggle of humanity, or at least does not have some sympathy with and understanding of its struggles, he can not hope to reproduce life interestingly. The ways of life do not quite reach the college student, as a rule. They roll on by him and do not engulf him in their fold until he has struck out from the protection of alma mater to graduate into the university of life.

The Only Advantage of the College Man.—I do not wish to be misunderstood. Not for the world do I want the reader to believe that the college student has not an equal chance with anyone else to succeed in writing. His temporary sojourn in the hall of knowledge will have kept him from the full knowledge of life that a younger person already will have gained from the ordinary pursuits of life, but the college student will have gained in power of expression and in the ability to express himself with ability and preciseness. Yet, as a rule, the ordinary young person who does not contemplate going to school will learn more about human nature in one year than the college student can in four years, unless the college student is earning his way through college and is actually doing the things that help, make the world go round.

Looking About and Seeing.—The preceding section has not been written with the intention of decrying a college education. A college education is a very excellent and necessary thing in some lines but is not necessary for a full triumph in the field of writing. And I do not wish any college student who may read this section to be discouraged. Anyone with broad-mindedness and clear-sightedness enough to look around him and to accept nature at its face value, can choose from what he sees some particular phase of human nature in incidents and situations that will bring this trait out clearly and thrillingly and charmingly. The advice imparted in this system is all that is necessary to give a knowledge of the principles necessary to proceed to write. I say this at the risk of being accused of presumptuousness.

Writing Short Stories: Getting Acquainted With Your Ideas

Ideas Are Common to All.—Many aspiring writers have said to me: "I would love to write for the movies or for the magazines and I know I could if I only had the right kind of ideas. But I don't think my ideas would make good stories or photoplays." How very amusing indeed are such statements when one impartially considers the truth of the matter. Every person, I care not who he is or what his position in life, has daily so many ideas and thoughts, and receives so many impressions, that he could not make into stories a small part of them—not even in a lifetime. Every time a person walks down the street he comes in contact with people concerning whom he draws conclusion—about their life, their looks, their destination, their position in life—so on without end. Everything anyone does or sees or hears or perceives with any of his senses starts a train of thought. Every human being is constantly arriving at conclusions with regard to those things that are occurring about him and in which he is taking an active part. Let anyone banish from his mind instantly the suspicion or fear that he does not have ideas. He has far more than he ever possibly can use.

Choosing Ideas That Mean Most to You.—But the fact that nearly everyone has innumerable ideas is not an important one as far as the actual writing of stories is concerned. The vital factor is the choosing of those ideas that live with one, that stay with one, that are a very part of one's being. Ideas mean very little and are of no practical value to the prospective writer unless they have grown from little suggestions and thought-germs into big ones. A writer could not choose at random an idea from those that run through his mind and hope successfully to make a story from it unless this idea so had him in its power that he were passionately fond of it. Only warm, breezy, living ideas make salable stories and photoplays. Ideas for ideas' sake are valueless, but ideas taken from the very blood of the individual are tremendous.

How to Select Your Ideas.—We come to the conclusion that a person must select his ideas with judgment and purpose. The writer should not under any circumstances choose an idea because he thinks it would make a good story, but because that idea means a great deal to him, because he wants to express its meaning and to impress its vividness and significance upon the reader, to make the reader feel about it as he does. Any other kind of an idea would make very dull reading indeed. Words mean nothing unless they have ideas behind them, and ideas mean nothing unless they have the punch of belief behind them. I am constantly urging beginners not to think of writing as a mere exercise or duty to be gotten over with quickly. And I have cautioned others against the tendency among beginners to cast about laboriously for very startling situations that could be built up mechanically, bit by bit, as is an automobile engine or as a child builds a house from his blocks. Perhaps the latter illustration would be more illuminating. The child usually works after no exact design. He merely places the blocks upon one another without any clearly defined purpose or end; when all the blocks have been used, there is nothing left to do but knock them down.

I do not say that the writer cannot derive themes and profitably secure suggestions from other plays and stories he sees and reads. He can and should do so, but he should consider only those suggestions that immediately appeal to him as reflecting something he has thought on the very subject, or as picturing some experience he himself has felt. Ideas cannot be forced if they are to be effective. Every person's emotions are aroused sufficiently during the course of a day to serve as a foundation of stories having feeling and depth.

Good Ideas Spring Naturally from a Person's Self.—I am sometimes greatly provoked when I read stories with not even a semblance of personality or distinction. Some of these stories are utterly lacking in originality—the writer has taken one situation from one story and another situation from a still different story. He then combines the two into a product that is meaningless, lifeless, and lacking in any positive qualities whatsoever. The writer has not thought about his own feelings regarding the matter; his characters mean nothing to him—their emotions strike no responsive chord in his own heart—his characters are mere puppets and he is faking emotions.

In such a case, the writer probably thought that inasmuch as certain situations took well in another story they ought to take well in his in a slightly revised form. He did not consider that ideas grow step by step just as does anything else. He did not perceive that the working out of a theme or idea, a situation or emotion, is a gradual process. The writer's mind must nourish an idea from all angles until it has blossomed forth from the germ idea into a well-rounded, complete, and original plot containing unmistakable marks of the writer's own personality.

Such writers might be greatly astonished were they informed that their own ideas, taken from the very beginning and built up in a manner calculated to bring out an emotion or impression or to convey a certain effect, would be far more salable than any haphazard collection of situations that have appeared in other stories.

The Endless Source of Ideas.—Some people probably do seriously entertain a doubt as to their having worth-while ideas about which they could express themselves vigorously. But how very much mistaken they are. Everyone has his sorrows, his joys, his disappointments and his gratifications, his set-backs and his rewards. How the heart of the reader does thrill and throb in reponse to emotions that ring true—emotions that the writer lives over again as he sets them down on paper, responding, as the seismograph registers the slightest earth tremor, to the struggles of his hero and the perils of his heroine.

Fixing Your Idea Firmly in Mind.—After the writer has chosen his pet idea, he must by all means mull over it for a period extensive enough to fix all its angles firmly in his mind, so that when he comes actually to write he does not need to think of what he is going to say to fill up a certain number of pages, but has only to convey his emotions and to express his convictions clearly and briefly. After the would-be author has his idea firmly fixed in mind and has arranged the situations attendant upon the development of his idea, all that is left to be done is to tell the idea in a grammatical and rhetorically correct fashion. But this latter phase is merely the mechanical detail of writing. It is a thing that anyone can acquire with a little practice, being merely the means of conveying ideas clearly, significantly, and beautifully. The idea is a living spark that will grow. After the idea has been arranged just as it will appear in the story, the rest is relatively simple.

The Complete Idea.—In referring to completed ideas, I refer to the completed structure that the writer has built up in his mind from the original theme. This idea in its completed form will contain all the situations and will take cognizance of all the characters, the motives that move them, and their relations to each other. Writing is doubly hard if the beginner writes as he goes along and tries to evolve his plots as he proceeds. Such a procedure is like attempting to build a house without a set of blue-prints. The writer should have just as keen a vision of what his story will be as the architect who visualizes the palace he has designed—seeing is before him in all its magnificence.

Writing Short Stories: Becoming Interested In Yourself

The Three Factors of Success.—A certain famous writer has said that success in writing depends largely upon three factors. First, the individual must be intensely interested in writing; second, he must have something worth while to say; third, he must be able to say it clearly and understandingly and with the least possible effort and the fewest words, so that the reader understands exactly what is in the writer's mind.

The Value of Being Interested.—In fact, it has been said by a number of persons famous in their individual lines of endeavors that success in anything rests on being greatly absorbed in some particular subject. A successful artist is one who is perpetually thrilled by glorious combinations of colors—he paints incessantly until he can reproduce certain beautiful or significant effects. A successful merchant is one who is thrilled by the barter of trade. There is a sort of deep joy in making plans which materialize in the chink of profit; in establishing systems that bring in more business and that make the business run more easily and more efficiently, with full satisfaction to those who buy and to those who turn the wheels of the business. In like fashion, well-founded interest in writing is a natural indication of the ability to devise salable ideas. The truth of the matter is, interest is contagious; it touches with magic colors all with which it comes into contact. The various phases of life are brought forward with sharper and keener portrayal, with a deeper and more profound knowledge of the emotions and instincts that move people to do certain things.

The success of your writing, then, will depend largely upon how deeply seeded is your interest in your success. If the interest you have in writing is only a passing fancy—only a temporary infatuation in the guise of interest-your chances for a continuous success are not great. On the other hand, if your interest is so pronounced that you fairly itch to put your ideas on paper, your future then holds forth great possibilities.

What Does Life Mean to You?-I want to tell you first of all that your writings should concern themselves with your knowledge of the psychology of life, or certain phases of it. Now don't become alarmed. There is nothing in the word psychology that will injure you. Your psychology of life is nothing more than your opinion of people and things in general. In your contact with conditions and individuals, if life means anything to you and you are interested in finding out new things every day, you will constantly be coming to certain conclusions concerning these things and people. A salesman knocks at your door. Much to your surprise, you find that after a few moments' talk he has sold you some volume or article you had not the slightest intention of buying, in fact, did not even realize your need for. You say to yourself, "What a wonderful salesman that fellow is," and you begin to think over the various arguments he brought up, his suave and unobtrusive personality, and the various psycho-logical factors that were dealt with to make you buy. You come to the conclusion that most things are possible if one takes only the right attitude and does the right thing in the right place. In this very conclusion you would have a plot or an idea for a possible story.

Have Confidence in Your Own Scheme of Life.—Thus the importance of deciding whether or not you have a pronounced scheme of life, whether or not you are in the habit of classifying in your own mind the various kinds of people, together with the psychology that motivates them. It has been said that the most successful person is the stubborn per-son, the person who has the most pronounced ideas on various things, as opposed to the person who is moved from one conclusion to another too readily. Certainly, if you would succeed in writing, you must have faith and confidence in your own scheme of life—you must believe firmly in what you think. At the same time you must be ever ready to revise your opinions in accordance with new circumstances and experiences. Thus, a young bride and groom, before the early glamour, romance, and novelty of their relationship passes on; labor under various delusions concerning how married life will proceed. They are convinced that their bark for two will pursue a true, uninterrupted course down the river of matrimony. A year or two later, perhaps, they have changed radically their ideas. These ideas will have been changed by experience itself. After the passage of time, their conclusions regarding married life will be far more true to life than those originally entertained.

Training Yourself to Be Observant: It follows naturally that anyone intensely interested in the movement of life about him must have a blue-print of life, on which, at times, he makes little erasures. The more observant one is of people and things, the more detailed and clearly defined is one's set of blue-prints. All of which brings us to the very great necessity of being most observant of all that occurs about us, of classifying this set of action, of considering this individual, of 'reflecting over such and such an occurrence, of arriving at this conclusion regarding this or that experience taken part in. Perhaps you think you are a close student of human nature, but are you really? Do you really study your friends and acquaintances? Do you really see all that goes on about you and apply a reason, a cause, to it? Or do many things of vital import slip by you? Does life touch you only lightly, leaving but a slight trace upon your memory? If so, you must train yourself to observe more closely the things that are constantly happening about you.

A splendid way to develop your faculties of observance is to consider the little events and conditions that arise in your daily life. You go to work in the morning, we will suppose. You arrive at the office, or the store, or the factory. The manager is out of sorts. Things do not go along with the harmony they should. The manager's crankiness imparts a spirit of confusion and discord. Mistakes are made as the usual spirit of co-operation is lacking. Upon consideration, you conclude that one wheel out of place disrupts the whole scheme of machinery, in everyday life as in mechanics. Each and every one of us have an influence on those with whom we come in contact, whether or not we realize it. Here, then, is a conclusion we have made. It is the germ idea of a story plot which could be worked out in a multitude of ways.

The Freshness of Your Personal Point of View.—In your study of reasons and causes and results, you will utilize, of course, your own eyes. What you see will be different, in a greater or less respect, from what another person, viewing identically the same thing, would see. Your own point of view of life colors life with a new tint. You conceive life about you as no one else does. The conclusions that you arrive at may be diametrically opposite from the opinions entertained by another person. Your own reasoning powers will convince you whether or not your opinions regarding these matters are correct or erroneous.

The Significance of Little Things.—It is not merely the big things you must look for and seek out. The little things of life have sometimes as much significance as those seemingly of greater importance. It is the little things that slip by the casual observer and that are seen by the keen-eyed one. If a writer would be original, he must be able to discover the various details that give a new tone to an old object—that bring out vividly, interestingly, and originally what heretofore was considered to have no vivid, interesting, or original features. One person may view an object or an occurrence, seeing only the commonplace, ordinary aspects of it, while another person will sense the very pulse of that object or person and, by a few illuminating phrases, will bring out its distinct characteristics. Things must not be ordinary or commonplace to you. A person may have been in a certain niche of life so long that his particular mode of life palls upon him and he realizes only its boring, depressing, and uninteresting features. Yet there is surely something about that mode of life that holds great possibilities for stories. It is for you to seek out those factors of your life that would be interesting to someone else.

Story Material in Lonely Places.—One hardly would presume that an old maid's life in the country could hold anything of interest. Yet Frances Buzzell in her story, "Lonely Places," which appeared in the Pictorial Review, weaves a poignant beauty out of the simplest and most dusty elements in life. "Lonely Places" is a story of an old maid who, living apart from the people of her village, brought upon herself by her reserve the dislike and misunderstanding of these folk. It might seem impossible to the casual observer that anything of interest could be born out of a life so lonely and so uneventful. Yet Miss Buzzell has treated her subject with a delicate and imaginative realism that is noteworthy. In the story's two or three initial paragraphs, the author makes two true-to-type observations regarding the passage of time in a small village and the effects of its deadening life on former inhabitants who return for a visit. They are as follows

She was not quite forty years old, but so aged was she in appearance that another twenty-five years would not find her perceptibly older. And to the people of Almont she was still Abbie Snover, or "that Snover girl." Age in Almont is not reckoned in years, but by marriage, and by children, and grand-children.

Nearly all the young men of Abbie's generation had gone to the City, returning only in after years with the intention of staying a week or two weeks, and leaving at the end of a day, or two days. So Abbie never married.

Then again, Miss Buzzell describes in the following the rigid regularity of life in a small village, with regard to Abbie Snover in particular!

Every Winter evening, between seven and eight o'clock, Abbie lighted the glass-handled lamp, placed it on the marble-topped table in the parlor window, and sat down beside it. The faint light of this lamp, gleaming through the snow-hung, shelving evergreens, was the only sign that the big house was there, and occupied. When the wind blew from the West she could occasionally hear a burst of laughter from the boys and girls sliding down Gidding's Hill; the song of some young farmer driving home. She thought of the Spring, when the snow would disappear, and the honeysuckle would flower, and the wrens would again occupy the old tea-pots hung in the vines at the dining-room porch.

The things that made the people of Almont interesting to each other and drew them together meant nothing to Abbie Snover. When she had become too old to be asked in marriage by anyone, she had stopped going to dances and to sleigh-rides, and no one had asked her why. Then she had left the choir.

Except when she went to do her marketing, Abbie was never seen on the streets.

For fifteen years after Amos Snover died, Abbie and Old Chris lived alone in the big house. Every Saturday morning, as her mother had done before her, Abbie went to the grocery store, to the butcher shop, and to "New-berry's." She always walked along the East Side of Main Street, old Chris, with the market-basket, following about three feet behind her. And every Saturday night Old Chris went down-town to sit in the back of Pop Lippincott's store and visit with Owen Frazer, who drove in from the sixty acres he farmed as a "renter" at Miles Corners. Once every week Abbie made a batch of cookies, cutting the thin-rolled dough into the shape of leaves. with an old tin cutter that had been her mother's. She stored the cookies in the shiny tin pail that stood on the shelf in the clothes-press of the downstairs bedroom, be-cause that was where her mother had always kept them, to be handy and yet out of reach of the hired help. And when Jennie Sander's children came to her door on their way from school she gave them two cookies each, because her mother had always given them two.

Bringing Out True Meaning by Use of Details.—Do you think that in writing such a story of country life you would have remembered and tabulated and considered such incidents as Miss Buzzell has used to bring out with great force the deadening ways and characteristics of the retired old soul, Abbie Snover. Note that the deadly-calm life of Abbie is stressed by speaking of her reserve, the seeming lack of any emotion on her part, the clock-like precision with which she regulates all her actions. It is the little things in a story that ofttimes bring out its pathetic, even its dramatic, nature.

Classifying Your Observations.—Now the beginner can-not be expected to remember and classify in their proper places all the observations he makes. Herein enters the vast importance of keeping a record. A note-book is a good thing, or a number of index cards may do. At any rate, you should not let your worth-while ideas and conclusions slip by. Certain thoughts and deductions may come to you at untold places. If so, you should keep such ideas firmly in mind until you can jot them down on an index card or in your note-book, to be preserved for use in a story. You will be surprised how quickly your note-book grows if you stick rigidly to this plan. After a time you will realize how utterly futile it would be to attempt to remember everything worth-while that you see and experience. You will be surprised at the wealth of material that your note-book accumulates. There will be material, suggestions, for hundreds of stories. It is better, though, to have a plethora of material than it is to be forced to skimp because of the lack of it.

Selecting Details with Restraint.—I do not want my readers to think that in the writing of a certain location, type of work, or type of life, it is absolutely necessary to assemble every item with the absolute assurance that these items are precisely true to life or to the type of material that is to be treated. Thus, suppose you are a worker in a certain line of business. For example, say that you are shipping clerk for a clothing industry. You may not be able to gather together all the facts relating to the conduct of a clothing business, but if you understand the psychology that moves the clothing business and that relates to the sale of garments ; if you are well versed in the psychology that moves the persons managing the business and know some of the main workings of the whole organization as relates to its contact with its customers and with its employees, your story will ring humanly true. It may have some minor defects but all writers have made mistakes of this kind. If your story be sincerely and convincingly treated and be true-to-type in the main, that is all that can be wished for.

Material for Stories in the Most Ordinary Places.—I find it so very difficult to convince the aspirant that the most ordinary life or location is a fertile field for the prospector of story plots. The style of present-day stories is very much different from the style of even ten years ago. To-day, we have stories based upon apartment houses, deserts, the home, the store, the business office, and so on, in every niche and corner of the Universe. The location of thrilling stories is not confined to the Northwest, Africa, the South Sea Isles, the underworld, high society, London and New York City. Magazine readers of to-day are interested in heroes and heroines anywhere and of any type, as long as they are true-to type. The most phlegmatic characters—the most uninspiring mode of living—the most dismal locations—all have imaginative possibilities or may form the background of stories of romance, action, and character.

The Simplest Ideas the Best.—You may have been told that it is the big, strong ideas that receive the most popular reception. You must not take the term "big," however, in its literal sense. The simplest ideas dealing with fundamental, elemental emotions and instincts, are the best, because they appeal more directly to the heart of your reader. The beginner never should attempt anything of too ambitious a nature. His plots should not be complicated or complex, they should never go far afield into foreign realms, dealing with a large number of characters and locations with which he is only acquainted by hearsay or by casual reading. His characters should not be too good nor too bad. He should confine himself to the portrayal of people and pleasures and emotions which he can safely and comfortably deal with. He should not concern himself with situations which may easily get so far beyond him that he falls into a trap from which he can extricate himself with but poor grace.

Where Famous Authors Get Their Material.—If the reader will take the time and trouble to classify in his mind various plots of the writer whose material he prefers, he will find that particular writer portraying places and people that he has studied most closely and knows most intimately. James Oliver Curwood writes stories of the great Northwest, where he has lived and hunted and prospected for years at a time. Henry Van Dyke features in many of his stories the French-Canadians, which people he has studied closely and under-stands intimately. John Fox, Jr. has written several stories based upon the mountaineers of Kentucky. Mr. Fox has mingled with these folks to such an extent that he feels him-self as one of them. Booth Tarkington wrote a great novel, "The Gentlemen From Indiana." Mr. Tarkington himself is a native of Indiana. Fannie Hurst and Montague Glass write stories of the Jews, their business dealings, their humors, their emotions, and so forth. These two last mentioned writers have studied the Jew to such an extent that they know their natures as well as the Jew himself does. Robert Chambers has written several stories with an artist as the hero. Chambers was an artist for several years. It is possible to continue such instances on and on, but the foregoing is sufficient to show that the very large majority of writers, in dealing with a set of characters or a certain location, have studied or been in that location, have lived among and been fellow-humans with these individuals. These writers them-selves stress above all else the importance of the beginner writing of those things he knows best. Joyce Kilmer in the volume, "Literature in the Making," quotes Kathleen Norris, the famous writer, as saying:

"I was talking the other day to a young girl of my acquaintance who is a costume model. She has literary aspirations. Now, her life itself has been an interesting story—her rise from a shopgirl to her present position. And every now and them she will say something to me that is a most interesting revelation—something that indicates the rich store of experience that she might, if she would, draw upon in her stories. On one occasion she said to me, `I went home and put my shoe-drawer in order.' "

"What do you mean?' I asked. `What is your shoe-drawer?'

" `Why, my shoe-drawer!' she answered. `You see, we costume models have to have a drawer full of shoes, because we must change our shoes to match every costume.'

"Why is it," asked Mrs. Norris, "that a girl like that cannot see the value of such an incident as that? That shoe-drawer is a picturesque and interesting thing, unknown to most people. And this girl, who knows all about it, and wants to write, cannot see its literary value! And yet what more interesting subject is there for her to write about than that shoe-drawer?

I do not see why writers will not appreciate the importance of writing about the things that are around them."

In the same volume Montague Glass is quoted as saying:

"The trouble with many young writers is that they don't know what they are writing about. They are attempting to describe psychological states of which they have only third-hand knowledge. Their ideas have no semblance of truth, and therefore their work is absolutely unconvincing."

Of special importance is the following quotation attributed to Rex Beach:

"How is a writer going to get ideas for stories unless he uses ideas? The more ideas a man uses, the more ideas will come to him.

"The imaginative quality in a man is like any other quality; the more it is functioned the better it is functioned. If you fail to use any organ of your body, nature will in time let that organ go out of commission.

"It is just the same with imagination as with any organ of the body. If a writer waits for ideas to come to him and ceases to exercise his imagination, his imagination will become atrophied. But if he uses his imagination it will grow stronger and ideas will come to him with increasing frequency."

Giving Your Plot the Touch of Originality.—Up to the present point, I have endeavored to impress upon the reader's mind the truth that an interesting story presupposes interest in life. And, while your own conclusions of life may, to a certain extent, differ from those arrived at by any other individual, still, your general ideas on certain subjects may nevertheless be very similar to those of other people due to the similarity of your own point of view to the point of view of others. A certain married woman may read this chapter, a woman who has been married for a number of years. She may, after looking back over her life, ask herself, "What has my experience of married life been?" Her husband may be a type similar to many other husbands and her experiences may have been much as the experiences of others. She then might very well ask, "How can I use these experiences in stories in such a way as to give them the unmistakable touch and charm of originality?"

This point is very vital. It is essential that the beginner understand perfectly what originality consists of before he delves into the more technical elements that govern the writing of short stories. We now have our groundwork of psycho-logical truth governing various characters and situations which we very much want to put on paper. At the same time, we want to get it down in such a way that the old theme will be impressed upon the reader's mind in an entirely new fashion. Here is where the writer must weigh his material cleverly so that the point to be brought out, no matter what it is, must come as a surprise as well as turn out naturally and logically.

Suppose the writer wishes to contrive a story of married life having as its main idea the fact that a successful marriage must be based upon true and strong love on the part of both parties concerned. That has been the underlying theme or germ idea of a great many stories and it will continue to serve as a theme for unlimited numbers to come. By its very wide appeal and application this theme is capable of being worked out in an unlimited variety of ways. The originality of your story depends upon the exact manner in which you work this out—the manner in which you arrange the events so that true love is shown to be the only way a marriage can be made really successful. It does not much matter HOW you do it, providing you DO do it, and accomplish it in a suspense-arousing, original, and perfectly sincere fashion. That all depends upon your inventiveness, and, as the writer already quoted said : "The power of developing ideas and of contriving incidents to illuminate a certain theme and to impress a certain situation all depends upon the extent to which you use this power and develop it and make it grow by exercise."

Writing Short Stories: Qualities Of Mind You Should Encourage

The Part Played by Your Imagination.—As I already have mentioned in preceding chapters, sympathetic observation is an essential from which salable stories will have their inspiration. By your observation of life, will your stories be known. Knowledge cannot be manufactured, cannot be simulated—it must be actually yours.

Your observation, however, will be assisted to a great extent by your imagination, your ability to create air-castles, to arrange and re-arrange true incidents and human characteristics in various combinations and patterns. The wealth of your imagination will naturally grow from the extent of your experience of life, your observations thereof, from things you see, hear, and think of. Your imagination cannot dwell on some-thing you do not know of or have not experienced. It is an absolute impossibility for you or anyone else to imagine any-thing that you actually have not heard of, seen, or know of. It is true that there is nothing new under the sun, although the arrangement of old things may be entirely new. It is this shifting of old events, characteristics, and the like, into new forms and complications, that imagination has most to do with. Because imagination must be founded upon fact is the best reason in the world why your imagination should be allowed to run at random only over the actual history of your own experiences, philosophies, and emotions. And why, as much as possible, a person's endeavor in writing should be restricted to his own niche in life. Your imaginings then are not so apt to misfire, to be unreal, and unconvincing.

Contrivance.—Next in line comes ingenuity or creativeness, both symbolical with originality. Inasmuch as there is nothing new under the sun, it follows that it would be almost impossible to devise an entirely new character type or chance upon an unused theme. The originality of your stories will be gauged in proportion to the degree of creativeness with which you arrange the events to bring out your theme. Many beginners disregard entirely the fact that all successful stories have some claim to originality, usually in the manner of working out the theme. Countless numbers of stories that reach my attention have no pretense whatsoever to any fresh new tone or outlook. The usual, every-day themes are arranged in fashions that carry no marks of distinction. When you come to think of it, it is not such a task to devise new situations or to revivify old themes. In a story, "The Dummy-Chuckers," which appeared in Cosmopolitan Magazine, Arthur Somers Roche renders an excellent variation of the old theme and situation based on mistaken identity. According to the tale, the dummychucker, who is also the hero, seems to be a vagrant who simulates illness and starvation in order to draw from the pockets of sympathetic on-lookers enough silver to secure a coveted drink. The dummy-chucker, interrupted in his faked play by the police, attempts to escape. He is picked up by a wealthy young man who takes the dummy-chucker to a sumptuous apartment. A bargain is struck between the two. The dummy-ehucker, greatly resembling a rival of the wealthy young man who has so suddenly befriended the dummychucker, is to impersonate this rival. The dummy-chucker, dressed as the supposed rival, is to appear at a certain cafe where the heroine and her scheming escort are to be, and is to create a disturbance—is to seem to be very greatly intoxicated. According to the wealthy young man's hopes, there-after, the girl will lose faith in the preferred rival, who, it seems, has been bravely attempting to break himself of the drinking habit.

The dummy-chucker, as he draws upon himself the garb of a cultured gentleman, seems to imbibe at the same time something of the atmosphere of a gentleman of honor. He motors luxuriously to the cafe where the affair is to be staged. He 'bears himself proudly and confidently. He feels to be a very gentleman, as his clothes designate, and the glances of the people at the place seem to accept him as such. As he is escorted to his table, he notices the wealthy young man and the girl at the table. We will let Mr. Roche tell the crucial point of the story.

As he stood there, the girl raised her head. She did not look toward the dummy-chucker, could not see him. But he could see the proud line of her throat, the glory of her golden hair. And opposite her he could see the features of his host, could note how illy that shrewd nose and slit of a mouth consorted with the gentle face of the girl. And then, as the maitre d'hotel beckoned, he remembered that he had left the flask, the monogrammed flask, in his over-coat pocket.

"Just a moment," he said.

He turned and walked back toward the corner where was his coat. In the distance, he saw some one approaching him, noted the free stride, the carriage of the head, the set of the shoulders. And then, suddenly, he saw that the "someone" was himself. The mirror was guilty of the illusion.

Once again he stood before it, admiring himself. He summoned the face of the girl who was sitting in the dining-room before his mental vision. And then he turned abruptly to the check-girl.

"I've changed my mind," he said. "My coat, please."

The dummy-chucker then returns to the apartment of the unscrupulous schemer and awaits his return. As the latter comes in, it is easy to note his rage. He orders one of his serants to strip the clothes from the vagrant—to eject him immediately. And, with the resumption of his old, tattered, nondescript clothing and because of the attitude of scorn that surrounds him on all sides, the dummy-chucker seems gradually to resume his old shuffling and unambitious way. He then returns to Broadway, where at an opportune moment, he again fakes illness to gain the few pennies that will bring him his drink.

How would you have developed this situation? Would you have done it in the old hackneyed fashion? Or would you have developed it in an entirely new manner as has Mr. Roche? It is in such matters that your powers of inventiveness will evince themselves.

"Shifting Situations to Bring About Original Stories. —An excellent method to increase your powers of inventiveness is to think over the various stories you read and photoplays you see—to quiz yourself as to how the climax could have been brought about in a different manner. Ask yourself how some particular situation leading up to the climax, if viewed from a little different angle, would have made an entirely new story and brought about a new climax. Think about the various incidents making up any stories you read. In shifting them about, be careful that you make events move logically and plausibly. You will be astonished at the vast panorama of new plots that will present themselves to you by such exercises.

The Many New Ways to Develop an Old Theme.—Consider the vast number of stories based upon the eternal triangle, two men and one woman, two women and one man, and so forth, that are always appearing in the magazines. And all of them are different to some extent else they would not be able to wedge themselves into the pages of discriminating publications. The possibilities of change are endless. It only rests with you to make these changes consonant with your character types and with the aim and end of your theme. Thus, various complications might grow from any theme, but be sure that the complication you choose is possible and believable.

Consider carefully all the experiences of life with which you come in contact. Juggle them about, imagine what might have happened had the circumstances been a little different than they actually were. It is surprising what effect a little incident, seemingly insignificant, will have on the even tenor of life.

Sympathy.—Another important quality of the writer's mind is sympathy. The writer should be able to put himself in another's place. Suppose he is writing of a jealous hero—the writer straightway should consider himself a jealous lover. What are the emotions that bruise and tear the heart of him who is jealous? You must be able to understand that question before you can hope to write sincerely and success-fully of a jealous hero. In placing yourself in the positions of those of whom you write, ask yourself what you would do under given circumstances—how you would react to injustice—how you would meet an emergency, and, while you might not have your character react exactly as you yourself would, sympathetic treatment of your character enables you to delve more deeply into the motives that move people.

Restraint.—This brings us to restraint and broadmindedness. I have said before that the writer should write of and deal in only those events in which he is intensely interested. On the other hand, that a true picture of what he is writing may be obtained, he should approach his subject calmly, deliberately, and unbiased. Otherwise, his writings may bear the finger-marks of prejudice. You may be so greatly absorbed in one particular character that you fairly itch to set this character down on paper, but after you have done so you should ask yourself in calm truthfulness whether or not you have depicted the character truthfully. Too great an enthusiasm is very apt to spoil the effects intended, for your readers may not feel as strongly regarding this character as you yourself do. It is a wise procedure when inspiration seizes you too strongly, to view your subject dispassionately for two or three days be-fore attempting to go ahead with it. By that time your ardor may have cooled somewhat. Certain aspects of your story that you may have stressed too strongly at first will have drifted into their real importance. You might have been tempted to make your hero too manly, too strong, too great. You might draw such handsome and gorgeous characters as to make your reader scoff or even to lay your story aside in disgust, with the exclamation of "impossible." And you may be too concerned over the deception and shams of life; you may attack them too severely as these shams are brought out in your character. If you do, you may be sure that your people will not be accepted as typical individuals. Do not, under any circumstances, allow your pet philosophies and theories of life, your prejudices, and the like, to creep too strongly and obviously into your writings. It is your purpose to amuse and entertain the reader. You cannot hope to do this if your work smacks too strongly of your own strong feelings. Enthusiasm is fine but it should be tempered by a cool hand, sensibility, and restraint.

The Value of a Sense of Humor.—In writing, a sense of humor is as refreshing as a cool shower on a hot, sultry day. You have often heard of the saying, "the saving sense of humor." That is true. A sense of humor has saved many a tragical or what promised to be a tragical outcome to a critical situation. A sense of humor enables the happy possessor thereof to laugh away many of the minor difficulties of this life. Without a sense of humor, most of us would move around as sour individuals, gloomy and downhearted, unable to see the bright side of life—even not caring to see it. Of decisive value in fiction is a sense of humor. It enables the writer to sense the tone of his situations. He may be drawing his characters too strongly, the situations in which they engage may be growing too melodramatic, even mawkishly so. He may be so straining after effect that the result be ridiculous—even preposterous. Herein rests the value of a sense of humor. Many stories have been founded on the "saving sense of humor," of how the quarrels of lovers, of husband and wife, and the like, have been averted from magnifying into separation and divorce by a sense of humor on either or both sides. A sense of humor may change a failure into a success—a too pronounced sense of humor may do the opposite. This should not be construed as relating to the writing of humorous stories, but only to caution the writer against committing absurd indiscretions, so that he does not make his characters too funny, his climax too tragical, his conclusion too absurd.

The Sensible Way to Write.—In a foregoing paragraph of this chapter I have spoken of a deliberate approach to your theme. The question arises, how should you write, by inspiration or by measured rote. Should you wait for inspiration, should you madly dash off a story at the approach of some divine inspiration, or should you make writing a task to be performed regularly? A seasoned writer has forgotten this problem. He knows that he could not hope to deal with all the inspirations that have seized him. You, yourself, if you have done any writing at all, will recall the wonderful thing that has happened when you bring yourself to actual writing. The manipulation of your characters and the progress of events bring forward a great number of possible variations to your plot. You may even have become confused as to which of these possible variations to give way to. Every story you write suggests countless other stories of a different nature. It would be a prolific writer indeed who was able to give form to all his inspirations.

Of course, I do not intimate that you should forget all your inspirations at the cost of writing out some particular plot you are engaged with. Set all your ideas and themes down as they occur to you. Let your note-book be the repository for all inspiration that might interrupt anything you have at hand. Stories that are written by sudden inspiration are not always successful, because the writer is unable to get a true perspective of the events and characters constituting the story. He has not had time enough to map out an artistically perfect plot. The more fervently he begins a story so inspired, the more lamely it might be likely to conclude. On the other hand, the best things I have ever written have come as sudden inspirations. The short story which I pro-pose to insert presently, so that it can serve as a kind of object lesson for some instruction I want to give beginners, was written in three or four hours at one sitting and never even corrected. It just flowed from me because the inspiration was strong and clear.

But for general advice the best way is to set aside a certain time each day, or every other day, in which you can write. Take up your plots one by one, completing the first plot or theme before you proceed to the next. Let your interest be measured. It will be more lasting.

Writing Short Stories: The Theme Of Your Story

What Theme Is.—Every story must have a start, a beginning, a foundation. Such a nucleus we call the theme. The theme of the story is that part of the story about which the author builds his complete production. Of course, the theme of the story may not be the germ idea or the bare incident that suggests the story, but from the germ idea or suggestion or emotion must grow the theme, for the writer must have ability to determine in his own mind what he means to impress on the reader before he can go ahead with his work. I will now mention various themes upon which uncounted stories have been based.

Example of Themes.—Idleness breeds evil—a loving wife must have a certain amount of attention and consideration —sacrifice for an ideal begets its own reward—to have a friend one must be a friend—bitterness and intolerance breed hatred and revolt—you cannot beat a man at his own game —a man may stifle the voice of conscience by constant excuses for himself—a true happiness in life rests in doing and being some real good—fear begets fear and is the wrong mental attitude—and if a person is to dance he must pay the fiddler. There is really hardly an end to the number of suitable themes for possible stories. The reason that certain themes are used in predominate quantities by story writers is that these themes adapt themselves regularly to problems and conditions of every-day life and strike a responsive cord in the heart of everyone. Thus, the themes founded upon the problems of married life strike home to a large proportion of magazine and story readers. The emotions sketched and the complications developed are followed with intense interest, because in many cases the reader can consider what has happened to himself under like circumstances. He may ponder over the things he might have done if placed in a like position with the hero or heroine that the story portrays. When you come to think of it, all of us, regardless of our positions in life, our education, training, and the like, are moved by the same fundamental, traditional, hereditary emotions and instincts. Under the superficialities and conventions of civilization, we are all made from the same clay, breathe the same air, shed tears over like sorrows, and respond to like joys and adversities. Thus it is, a story that is founded upon some great, fundamental, well-known theme has an excellent chance of being emotionally and dramatically strong, if developed in a suspense-arousing and original fashion. The theme really has little to do with the originality of your story. The originality depends entirely upon the manner in which you handle the incidents illuminating your theme. Originality does not enter into the theme itself. That must be left to a later development.

How a Theme Might Suggest Itself to You.—Let us, for a moment, consider the theme of injustice, of how it breeds hatred and revolt. Consider the stories and novels that have been founded upon this theme. The history of the world is a history of people revolting against oppression—of a rapid development to a high state of happiness and prosperity under benevolence and efficient administration. A young man of your acquaintance may be working in a shop or office. Suppose someone in authority over him should severely reprimand him before a number of his co-workers. Would this young man mutiny against the authority of his superior? Would he perform his duties as faithfully as he would were he surrounded by an air of friendly co-operation? Suppose you yourself had witnessed some such an incident as this? Offhand, it might not mean a great deal to you, but, on consideration, you would perceive that right under your eyes was fruit for your basket of story plots. Such a theme might develop in any number of ways. The young man spoken of might be revengeful or he might be broad-minded enough to teach his employer a lesson by doing some great good for him. Such a theme would be capable of many varieties of development, just as any theme is.

A Typical Theme.—You may have read in the news-papers of prospectors, hunters, explorers, and the like, who have been away from civilization for a long period of time. Perhaps you yourself have at times been away from all social beings, have been cooped up by yourself with only your thoughts and the great outdoors for company. What effect did or would such a life have upon you? How would you react to the loneliness of such a life? Armstrong Livingston, in his story, "Over The Horizon," treats of such a theme.

Its Development.—His story deals with a prospector who, in the early Spring, goes into the wilds of northern Montana in search of gold. The prospector reaches his destination and toils day in and day out for the precious metal. The surroundings about him are desolate, drear, barren. The solitary life and atmosphere bears down his spirit, transforming him into a morose being. The loneliness becomes so nerve-racking that he welcomes with great joy the friendly advances of a marten. The hero cultivates the visits of the little animal with great care. He thinks that without some living object to be interested in, he will go raving mad. At this point, a trapper hoves into view. He is hunting martens. The two men are talking together when the hero's friendly little marten sticks his head into view. The trapper makes a remark regarding the value of the marten's fur, whereupon the narrator of the story, whom we will term the hero, explodes with the statement that the marten is his own companion and is not to be molested. The trapper departs. Sometime later, a rifle shot is heard down in the gully. Hours flit by. The marten does not return to visit the hero. The latter becomes frantic. He gloats over the thought of what a joyful feeling it would be to tear the trapper limb from limb. The hero by now has concluded that the trapper shot his pet.

A few days later, when the hero has become almost desperate in his loneliness, the trapper again appears. In his pack of skins, the prospector notices a pelt that looks extremely familiar. He is convinced that the trapper actually did shoot the marten of whom he has grown so fond. The prospector stealthily reaches for his gun. He sees blood. He will murder the trapper who so treacherously killed the marten. Tragedy, at this point, is barely averted by the marten suddenly poking his nose over the top of a log. The hero starts. Three other little noses poke themselves over the top of the log. Suddenly, the hero understands. The marten has given birth to three babies—its absence is thereby explained. A great tragedy has been narrowly sidestepped.

As you will note from the foregoing, although the theme is old,its enunciation is original. Now ask yourself how you would have had this man reacting to the influences of loneliness that assailed him on all sides.

Themes Based on Circumstance.--Not all themes can be !stated in such terms and problems of life as I have given. Many of the themes of adventure stories are based upon some dramatic situation. Thus, an adventure story might be based upon the dramatic, clever, and entirely original manner in which a hero extricated himself from a hazardous position—how a business man put a deal over on his rival —how a political campaign was put across—how a lover put it over on a rival, and so on. Such themes cannot be stated in definite terms of life or character—rather are they unique twists of circumstance and situation arousing the suspense and interest of the reader. Upon such situations are stories of incidents, adventure, intrigue, and the like, usually founded. All contributing incidents lead up to a vivid explosion of this main situation that usually is placed at the point of climax. Thus, in one of Ben Ames Williams' stories, the main situation is the impersonation of a wealthy young man by a rogue who bears a striking resemblance to this wealthy young hero. The disguised rogue imitates the hero in all his mannerisms and studies the latter's former life in all the details. He is assuming the role of the hero with great finesse upon the sudden return of the latter. The story proceeds with an absorbing account of the strenuous efforts of the hero to prove that he is himself, and equally determined efforts on the part of the impostor to prove that he isn't.

Other Elements on Which Stories Are Based.—Many stories find their inception in strong, primeval emotions —envy, hatred, ambition, the struggle between love and duty, and so on. Other stories may be based upon the elaboration of ideas. Such stories are usually termed "purpose or problem" stories. As such, they may be based upon the discussion of social conditions—prohibition, politics, a man's duty to his country. And still other stories may be built around some particular setting in which a person's environment, his location, or his surroundings, are stressed to bring out their effects upon him. In the main, however, stories usually are based upon character, incident or situation, and emotion--only occasionally upon idea or setting. It is very difficult, too, for one to say definitely that a story is based upon character, upon emotion, or upon incident, for very few stories are restricted to any one of these. Usually, any two or all three of them enter into the basis of the story. Thus, a story may show the reaction of various characters to strong emotions, these emotions brought out by their placement under certain strained circumstances and in unexpected situations. If character, emotion, and incident were all brought forth in an equal degree, there would result a story of character, incident, and emotion. The truth is, most of our present-day stories are built up in just this fashion, although a large proportion do stress character and the manner in which certain characters respond to other characters, emotions, incidents, or to their own good or bad impulses. It does not much matter what you stress in a story provided you give to it a new twist and a new tone, provided the story arouses the emotions of your reader or the suspense of the reader regarding the outcome, and with all this is sincerely and logically told.

To give definitions, to classify the various distinctions of theme, and to give the examples of each type of theme, the following is offered :

Theme Further Defined.—The theme bears the same relation to the story that the foundation bears to the finished skyscraper; It is the underlying idea, the causation of the story, the truth or moral on which the plot is based. It receives its vital spark of life from any one of innumerable philosophies of life, strange and suggestive experiences, odd characters, human passions, and the like. The theme is that which the', writer wishes to impress upon his reader, the central idea which he wishes to set forth as impressively and significantly as possible.

Stories Based on Character.—All stories have characters of some sort in various numbers. Some writers will wish to base their stories on the study of an odd character with whom they are intimately acquainted, and whose passions and peculiarities, in reaction with the other characters of the story together with the circumstances in which all the characters are placed, they feel will prove entertaining and worthy of portrayal. All stories in which characterization or the conflicts of various emotions predominate, are stories of character. A story in which a son, by force of circumstances, must choose between the love of his mother and the respect and worship of his father, set off by situations necessary to give the story suspense, is a story of character. The study in a story based on such a theme would be a study of the son.

Stories Based on Incidents...—Characters must act, must engage in enterprises, the more interesting and harrowing the better. Stories of incident ordinarily are stories of adventure, productions in which thrilling, exciting, ever-rushing action is featured above all else. In stories of pure adventure, the characters usually are subordinate to incident; we demand only that the hero be brave and crafty, the heroine pretty and lovable. And, though the main characters conflict with various others in the story of incident, we are not so much interested in the influence event, emotion, and circumstance have on the hero's and heroine's nature, as we are in the manner in which they will extricate themselves from some pressing danger. The themes on which stories of adventure are based are many and varied. Examples are: "Arabian Nights," "Robinson Crusoe," Merimee's "Taking of the Redoubt," together with Scott's, Dumas', and a number of Stevenson's writings, "Treasure Island," for instance.

Stories Based on Setting.—Next come stories of setting, in which the greatest emphasis is placed upon the background, the tone, the time, the place, or the conditions of the story. Thus, I might desire to write a story in which some phase of nature—the sea or the foreboding mountains—has an overwhelming effect upon man's life; or, again, I might know of some strange and mysterious building on which I could base a story of the supernatural, as Poe did in "The Fall of the House of Usher." The pervading mysterious atmosphere of a certain house gave Poe his theme. His next problem was to build up incidents occurring in or near the house to bear out the original theme of the supernatural.

Characters ordinarily will be actuated according to the conditions in which they are placed or the localities in which they are set. If you are put in a healthful, beautiful, and sunny land of flowers and singing birds, you are quite likely to be optimistic and to react differently than if you are placed in the New York tenement district. The complications of setting .Ire limitless.

Stories Based on Emotion.—Next in order comes the story of emotion, that based on some great passion or perturbation of the soul—love, fear, hate, duty, faith. Thus, with some stories love predominates; or we may have a production based upon a jealous husband or lover. A story built upon any one of these emotions and in which character, incident, and setting are subordinate to the emotion aroused in the heart of the reader, is a true story of emotion. Bulwer Lytton, in his story "The House and the Brain," evidently had in mind the production of the emotions of fear and horror, as had Poe in many of his stories of the supernatural.

Stories Based on Ideas.-Lastly in this category comes the story; of idea, the result, ordinarily, of the author's philosophies of life. One and all of us during certain periods of life observe inharmonies of human nature, and odd social reactions: among people, which, if set off in the texture of a story, might prove illuminating to man. The writer might have seen examples in which a poor and unobtrusive, but deserving and talented, young man or woman was received with less consideration than another individual, the latter more prosperously placed but having less true culture and humility. The possibilities of stories based on ideas are without end; they include all ideas of life and may be either humorous or tragic. An excellent story of idea is Edward Everett Hale's "The Man Without a Country." Hale's intention in this story was to bring clearly and powerfully to the reader's mind, lest he forget, just what his country means to him.

The greatest themes are those which are based on the fundamental sensations and passions of human life, those which might grip an Eskimo in the far North and which might touch a responsive chord in the breast of a swarthy Arab. It is stories based on elemental themes, such as fear or love, that will live longest, for from the earliest epochs man has experienced fear and love, and doubtless always will.

How and Where to Secure Your Themes.—Now that the prospective author understands what theme is, and the type of stories that he may write, he may next ask, "How am I to think of "a theme?" There are a number of ways in which his thoughts may be assisted. He may secure his inspiration from his everyday life. He may be working side by side with some ambitious young man who has beautiful visions but who is shackled down by lack of confidence in himself, and who requires a mental revolution to make him really determined to grasp 'a fulfillment of his ideal, though it may mean the draining of his life's last blood. Or, again, the young author may look down into his own heart to analyze the fiber of his own nature. If he is broad-minded, he will see much therein to write of.

Another prolific source of themes is that of reading books. Ofttimes while reading a story it may suddenly occur to one that the hero, if placed under different conditions, might react in a very entertaining, original manner. Most themes permit of a multitude of developments, according to the mind that uses them.

Regarding the inspiration given by the reading of books, Robert Lewis Stevenson says in his article, `Books Which Have Influenced Me "A book which has been very influential upon me fell early into my hands, and so may stand first, though I think its influence was only sensible later on, and perhaps still keeps growing, for it is a book not easily outlived, the Essais of Montaigne. That temperate and genial picture of life is a great gift to place in the hands of persons of today; they will find in these smiling pages a magazine of heroism and wisdom, all of an antique strain; they will have their `linen decencies,' and excited orthodoxies fluttered, and will (if they have any gift of reading) perceive that these have not been fluttered without some excuse and ground of reason; and (again if they have any gift of reading) they will end by seeing that this old gentleman was in a dozen ways a finer fellow, and held in a dozen ways a nobler view of life, than they or their contemporaries."

The wise writer allows the world to be his sphere of observation; allows the world, and every part and particle of the world, every object of nature, every bit of news, every suggestive happening, no matter to whom or in what manner it occurs, prove grain to his grist. As Hamilton W. Mabie cites: "He fed himself with any kind of knowledge which was at hand; if books were at his elbow, he read them; if pictures and engravings, he studied them; if nature was within walking distance, he watched nature; if men were about him he learned the secrets of their skill; if he were on shipboard he knew the dialect of the vessel in the briefest possible time; if he traveled by stage he sat by the driver and learned all about the road, the country, the people, and the art of his companion; if he had a spare hour in a village in which there was a manufactory, he went through it with a keen eye, and learned the method's used in it."

Themes to Be Barred.—The young author, in choosing his theme, may decide on one which has been the foundation of innumerable other stories he, has read. Everything we read, everything we hear or see, is placed firmly in our mind, though we may not be able consciously to bring each mental record to instant recollection. Nevertheless, it still persists ; hence, if we choose an old and much-used theme for elaboration, we may be apt to work it out on the lines on which other stories, with themes similar or identical to the one we have chosen, have been developed. It will all be without intention, yet the danger is there. So, in choosing an oft-utilized theme, the writer must be doubly cautious in working out his plot.

For instance, there might come to me the theme of the young child proving a means of reconciliation between father and mother at odds. Now, literally hundreds of stories have been based on this theme, and unless I can devise some new method of bringing the child in contact with the father and mother, some new method by which they are brought to see the error of their quarrel, my story will misfire, will not be a new story at all. The young writer, like the sentinel on duty, must constantly be on guard that he does not allow old, worn-out themes automatically to work themselves out as they have been worked out before. This, of course, does not apply so strongly to the elemental themes, dealing, for instance, with the faith of woman ''for her husband, or the blind love of a mother for her child. Such themes are too broad and possible of unlimited development to admit of a great amount of danger. It is with themes based on ideas or incidents that we must deal most carefully. Thus, if the author desires to write a story concerning the adventures of two brothers in war time, one championing one side, the other the opposite, it will be incumbent upon him to differentiate his story from others of a like theme.

Next in order come improper themes, themes dealing too strongly, insincerely, or suggestively with sex, together with morbid and depressing stories. Of course, every story based on sex and some of its intimate relations is not undesirable. The writer, must however, be clean of mind when writing a production of this character. He must have noble sentiments in mind, for every story must inevitably bear the texture of the writer's very soul—all evil in him will be mirrored in the story. Many of the French novelists and short-story writers deal with sex questions and sex relations in a very daring manner, but their manner of treatment merely is analytical and serves as an illuminating illustration of the theme.

Since the magazines of the country, too, are aiming more and more toward the ideal and the optimistic, it will be to the advantage of the writer to avoid the sensational, the morbid, and the depressive. The writer should not base his stories, as did De Maupassant in "The Piece of String," on too merciless logic or on the grinding decrees of fate and cruel nature.

If he must write stories of action, let there be not a super-abundance of murders, suicides, broken hearts, ruined homes and tortured heroes. Use propriety and proportion at all times. Let this emotion or that emotion, if stressed rather strongly, be offset by its contrasting emotion. If it is desired to write stories dealing with the supernatural or mysterious, the writer must be sure not to descend to the shocking and repulsive, as does Poe in a few instances. Your story might not possess the sharp tone of reality that Poe was able to impart to his. Unless done by a skilled hand, such a story might degenerate into the senselessly horrible.

The themes barred are those that offend good taste, and it certainly would be beyond the pale of good taste to argue with a neighbor over his religious beliefs, or to poke fun at another because of his race, his creed, or his opinions. Moderation in everything should be the motto to shackle enthusiasm.

Writing Short Stories: Point Of View

The Purpose of Point of View.—The reader comes to you, the author, as an entire stranger. From the moment of introduction, he gladly relinquishes all conscious hold on his practical every-day world. He is determined to incorporate himself into the soul and being of your hero, to think that He is this hero; hence, has all the right in the world to sorrow or fight with him. The purpose, then, of point of view is to arouse the reader to the pleasurable belief that he is seeing, at first hand, startling and revealing incidents.

What is Point of View?—Point of view is the telling of a story from some previously, determined vantage point. It is an essential convention of the art of short-story writing. If it were not for point of view every story would be hopelessly confused, would deteriorate merely into a babel of tongues. The story would resemble greatly a room full of people, all talking at the same time. The story would contain no suspense, no thrilling conjectures as to the manner in which the hero might extricate himself from harrowing situations, because it would already be explained by a triple or quadruple point of view just what the characters would do, because they themselves would reveal their motives and intentions.

The mechanism of telling a story is divided into three methods: first, the point of view of the main participant; the omniscient point of view; and the objective, impartial, or third-person point of view. All stories told in the first person usually have the point of view of one of the main participants, preferably the hero or heroine. Examples of stories told in this point of view are "Robinson Crusoe" and a number of Poe's short stories, such as the "Black Cat" and "Ligeia."

This method of telling a story is extremely effective because of the inevitable tone of sincerity coming from the use of the personal pronoun. We seem to read of the personal experience of some character who is setting his experience down just as it occurred. Thus: "But the worse thing of all was the loneliness. There wasn't a wild animal to prowl around the tent at night, nor a bird to sing at dawn. I was the only creature that moved in all that hell of desolation. Then I happened to recall an expression I had once heard : `Alone with God.' That put the idea of prayer into my head, and one evening at dusk I got right down on my knees and prayed—not for strength, or patience, or gold, but just for company. I asked that something, or somebody, be sent in time to keep me from going crazy."

This method also has its defects. If the adventures through which the hero is hurled draw too greatly upon his personal energy and resourcefulness; if he is made a shining example of the rising of man to emergency, and this is told in the first person, the story is very apt to carry the impression of egotism. Moreover, in stories that contain stirring action occurring at widely separated points, the hero must be rather super-human and veritably possess seven-league boots to cover the great distance and participate in all the action. He must be there or he cannot tell what occurs. Customarily, however, these difficulties are circumscribed by the means of letters, messengers, and so forth.

Point of View of One of the Observers of the Story. —This is the point of view customarily employed in detective stories. Conan Doyle makes an extensive use of this method, Dr. Watson serving as the observer of all the main action. It is essential that the observer be largely a recorder of what happens and not too greatly a direct participant in the action. If he is the latter, the attention of the reader is very apt to be diverted from the hero to the part the observer plays.

The Omniscient Point of View.—In this point of view the writer supervises and analyzes the actions, motives, and thoughts of his main characters and brings one or more of them, complete in all details of heart and soul, to the attention of the reader. He knows all, he sees all, and he experiences many things which can be known only by some one who can penetrate into the utmost recesses of a person's heart and mind. This point of view is in use largely in stories of analysis, such as George Eliot's "Romola," in which lengthy tale she sketches the deterioration of the main character, Tito Melema. It is this point of view that is used so largely in stories of character. To understand a character very thoroughly, we must know much of his motives, for it would be next to impossible to know what a character thinks and feels and how he reacts under certain conditions without having the power of omniscience. If an author has this power, the reader profits thereby.

The omniscient point of view, however, is seldom used in modern short stories because it consumes too great space in the telling. The reader must not be too greatly concerned with the motives, the thoughts, and each phase of the feeling of several characters. The action must go on, the crisis must be met and done with. We cannot linger too long on traits of character as are dealt with at length in novels.

The Objective, Impartial, or Third Person Point of View.—This is the method now in use by present-day short-story writers. It admits of a swift development of the story plot. This point of view is often called the author-observant poin of view. In such a point of view the short story bears a st king resemblance to the drama. In the drama the characters merely act and speak. No one stands back of the scenes or on the stage to analyze aloud to the audience the motives which move the actors. The character must interpret l is own emotion without any outside influence except that coming from expression of the lineaments, the movements of the hands, the inflection of the voice, and so forth, together with the settings of the stage. The point of view of the author-observant is exactly 'similar to that of the audience of a drama. The author is a mere recorder of events. He stands to one side and gives to us the action of the personages of his story, just as they occur. We must interpret from the character's speeches and actions just what kind of people they are.

This method is unusually effective because it admits of a speedy unraveling of the plot. The reader can become greatly interested in the life of the action because the author is far removed from the reader's thoughts and does not intrude himself upon the reader's reflection. The characters of the story have it all their own way—the author is merely the stenographer who takes down the character's speeches and movements.

Combination of Points of View.—A story need not be told entirely from the omniscient point of view or from that of the author-observant. A combination of both of these elements of story telling may be used. In telling a story I may be omniscient in a restricted sense. I may delve deeply into the motives of one character and leave the motives of the other characters to the interpretation of the reader. This is an excellent method because it allows the reader to use his ,own imagination on the other characters and thereby heightens the suspense. In stories of the author-observant type, the writer may introduce comments on life and his characters at opportune moments during the development of his story. We give as an example of the author-observant type of story, interspersed with comments, a portion of O. Henry's "The "Trimmed Lamp."

Suffused in the aura of this high social refinement and good breeding, it was impossible for her to escape a deeper effect of it. As good habits are said to be better than good principles, so, perhaps, good manners are better than good habits. The teachings of your parents may not keep alive your New England conscience; but if you sit in a straight-back chair and repeat the words "prisms and pilgrims" forty times the devil will flee from you. And when Nancy spoke in the Van Alstyne Fisher tones she felt the thrill of noblesse oblige to her very bones.

There was another source of learning in the great departmental school. Whenever you see three of four shopgirls gather in a bunch and jingle their wire bracelets as an accompaniment to apparently frivolous conversation, do not think that they are there for the purpose of criticising the way Ethel does her back hair. The meeting may lack the dignity of the deliberative bodies of man; but it has all the importance of the occasion on which Eve and her first daughter first put their heads together to make Adam understand his proper place in the household. It is Woman's Conference for Common Defense and Exchange of Strategical Theories of Attack and Repulse upon and against the World, which is a Stage, and Man, its Audience who Persists in Throwing Bouquets Thereupon. Woman, the most helpless of the young of any animal—with the fawn's grace but without its fleetness; with the bird's beauty but without its power of flight; with the honey-bee's burden of sweetness but without its— Oh, let's drop that simile—some of us may have been stung.

The Center of Interest.—Before deciding upon the point of view, it will be well for the writer to determine definitely with just what characters or character he has to deal with most sympathetically, for half the charm of a story lies in the fact that it has a center of interest, meaning that one of the characters, or one set of characters, holds the center of the stage and is constantly in prominence. A story to be perfect must have a center of interest, just as a wheel must have an axle.

Writing Short Stories: Characters And Characterization

Characters Must Be Interesting.--Most People read for amusement and entertainment. It will be well for the young writer to bear this fact constantly in mind in planning who his characters will be and what they will do. What they will be will depend largely on whether his story is to be one of action of emotion, of setting, of idea, or of character. If of action, his characters themselves will be largely means to carry along the action of the plot. On the other hand, if his production is to be one of character, the actors will be chiefly concerned in being, in developing, in displaying character.

But, whether the characters are merely the means to an end, or the end itself, the writer must be sure that his characters are interesting. We like to be in the company of interesting people in our every-day life, especially in view of the fact that most people are outwardly ordinary and usually lack any 'marks of distinction. People, as a rule, do not exert themselves or go out of their way to be entertaining to others. Consequently, it is the attraction of the obliging actors who further his story that the author will urge as a reason for having his story read. So the writer must exert himself to make his characters very interesting. They must continue to act without tiring, without boring, and at all times must display tendencies of major interest, or unique tendencies of well-known characteristics. If the writer fails to do this if he is unable to make his characters much more worthy of our time and attention than ordinary people, then his story will be a failure.

If a person were taken from life and his actions reproduced just as they occurred, the narrative would be very tiring indeed. Only at very long intervals would the character engage in such enterprises, or experience an upheaval of his orthodoxies, sufficient to hold a reader's attention. Things of interest happen to the average individual only at wide and isolated intervals. In the successful story, characters must be planned in such a manner that they are constantly changing, or progressing, being acted upon by other characters, or involved in circumstances and conditions that make the story. A story character must experience in a few pages what usually occurs to an individual of every-day life in several years. Characters in stories undergo a very intensive and concentrated existence. In order that the theme of the story may be presented in the briefest and most effective manner possible, the characters must constantly be "in the frying pan," to speak in the vernacular, until the action has been drawn to a satisfactory end.

Characters Must Be of Universal Appeal.--One writer may desire to write stories of interest only to women, or to men, or the constituents of a particular trade or locality. The magazines; consciously or unconsciously, greatly en-courage this tendency. For instance, one magazine will re-quest that all stories submitted be of the "society type with a denouement of such a hidden and suggestive unravelment that the reader will think its truth has been revealed to him alone and that he has been very clever in discerning it." Or another publication will want a type of stories dealing with the life of the woman on the farm ; another periodical will want war stories; another adventure stories, and so on. If the writer has a predilection for writing certain types of stories and his characters are of a limited appeal, he will find numerous markets for his work. But his field will not be a fraction as broad or as appealing as that of the writer who treats of characters all of us can understand, imagine, and appreciate. The thinking writer will allow his character to exploit elemental themes and emotions. If he does and his story has an American setting, then it will be read and enjoyed by all Americans everywhere.

Characters Should Be Typical of Certain Traits.—The human soul, in the abstract, is made up of a great number of moral and immoral qualities, such as ambition, bigotry, love, selfishness, courage, and faith. Each character of a short story ordinarily embodies one of these abstract traits. In one story the heroine will be the embodiment of faith in her lover, no matter how badly that faith be shaken. Her forte, her reason for being in the story, is that she is faithful. Each character must possess certain traits and tendencies when he enters the action—he must still possess those same exaggerated and inbred traits when he leaves, unless, of course, the story is founded on events which cause a revulsion in the character of the main actor or actors. He must be the concentrated essence of courage—of perseverance—of fear—or of hate come to life. He must live up to the part laid- out for him in the story. There must be no wavering, no doubt as to the part he is to play.

Great characters, Whitman observes, "contain multitudes." This is, the man of courage must be, the sum entire of all courage, in all men everywhere. We must see clearly in his action just what he knows and understands fear to be. Becky Sharpe, in Thackeray's "Vanity Fair," typifies all scheming women ; and restless, grasping, unsatisfied peasants are typified in Paklom, main character of Tolstoi's "Three Arshins of Land." Now, though doubtless there are legions of women who scheme to bring about certain things during their life and to whom their own welfare is omnipresent and all-pressing, nevertheless there are no women in actual life who consistently and constantly could reveal the traits of craftiness and scheming so typified in the interesting Becky.

Real Individuals Usually Not Typical.—Very few people are typical in the above sense for the reason that their tendencies' along certain lines, such as love for admiration and fame, do not contain near all the qualities, in the aggregate, of a certain type. A man may be strong-willed, may evince it in various and unmistakable ways, but his strong-willedness is not near equal in magnitude, or variety, or consistency, to the tendencies and accomplishments displayed by all other men combined who possess this trait.

Characters Must Be Typical to Impress the Reader. —It is this display of typical traits by a story's characters, that make it and them interesting. You or I may not be especially concerned in the love affair of some young High School chap of our acquaintance. But we are interested hugely in the manifestations of love taken as a whole, manifested in the person of some character evincing in the aggregate all its qualities or the potencies of its qualities. And so it is with all traits. We may not be attracted to special or trivial portrayal of types of emotion or character; but, when some particular trait is summed up in all its force and magnitude, in the compass of one person, then we are interested in its disclosure, because all of us, at some time or other during our lives, have experienced the power of nearly all elemental emotions. We are so constituted, like an intricate piece of machinery of a great many parts, that we all have many traits instead of one.

We Remember Strongly Typical Characters.—But characters, to draw attention, must possess more than unity and prominence of trait. They must, above all, be individual, so that, even after having read the story, we may remember them as very entertaining personages. The ways to individualize a character are manifold. Think of several people of your own personal acquaintance, then decide just what qualities they possess, what peculiarities and habits they display, by which you especially remember and distinguish them from other people. Each of us do certain things, have certain mannerisms of dress and speech, which characteristics serve as marks of identification by our friends and acquaintances. It is these distinguishing qualities—a lisp of speech, a manner of walking, an exclamation we constantly are repeating, a habit we !constantly are rehearsing in the presence of others —which make certain characters distinguishable from the other people of the story.

Sketching Your Characters Briefly.—The writer does not need to load his characters down with individualities; they can be made too individual, and, in, making doubly sure that each 'character will be remembered and easily identified, the writer' can cause the reader to forget the story itself. Nor is it necessary to precede the entrance of each character in the story by a long description of him. Such a tendency is wasteful, for it is by the few prominent oddities of their peculiar natures that we remember characters. Consequently, it will be incumbent upon the author to choose only those few details of a character that will fix his identity firmly in mind. The following bit of description is very brief, but it impresses an image of the Colonel firmly upon our minds.

"Colonel. Marigold was a rosy cherub with a white chin-whisker. He carried his sixty years with a slight soldierly limp, and was forever opening his china-blue eyes in mild astonishment."

The Two Methods of Character Delineation.—Characters are pictured to the reader by two sets of methods: I. Direct Delineation, and II. Indirect Delineation.. By direct delineation, we mean exposition, description, and announcements of certain characters by other characters. By indirect delineation, we mean portrayal by the character himself in significant speech; by one character's effect upon an-other, and,lastly, by the action of a character.

1. Direct Delineation: 1. By Exposition, We will take up exposition, the first in the direct methods of delineation. In this, the character's most interesting traits are sketched by the author. We secure an excellent outline of the main character, though this system lacks somewhat in effectiveness for the reason that the character does not possess the warmth, intimacy, and lifelike resemblance of moving, speaking people. The following example of the expository method is from Stevenson's "New Arabian Nights."

"Mr. Silas Q. Scuddmore was a young American of a simple and harmless disposition, which was the more to his credit as he came from New England—a quarter of the New World not precisely famous for those qualities. Although he was exceedingly rich, he kept a note of all his expenses in a little paper pocket-book; and he had chosen to study the attractions of Paris from the seventh story of what is called a furnished hotel, in the Latin Quarter. There was a great deal of habit in his penuriousness; and his virtue, which was very remarkable among his associates, was principally founded upon diffidence and youth."

2. By Description.—Next in order comes the method of description, in which the character's physical plan is sketched as briefly and colorfully as possible. As has already been said, a judicious selection of outstanding details should be chosen. Nor need all the characters be described in more than a word or two, though it is customary to have a number of identification marks for the main characters. Occasionally, however, a character is of such importance, and the physical side may have such a bearing on the development of the story, that a full and more detailed description be necessary. But, ordinarily, characters may best be described in bits and sections, as certain actions in which they become involved bring to view their tendencies and oddities. By this latter method, the reader is not taken for too long a time from the center of interest. The following example of description is from Jack London's "Samuel," a story of character:

The sunken cheeks and pinched nose told little of the quality of life that flickered behind those clear blue eyes of hers. Despite the minutiae of wrinkle-work that somehow failed to weazen them, her eyes were as clear as a girl's—clear, out-looking and far-seeing, and with an open and unblinking steadfastness of gaze that was disconcerting. The remarkable thing was the distance between them.

It is a lucky man or woman who has the width of an eye between, but with Margaret Henan the width between the eyes, was fully that of an eye and a half. Yet so symmetrically molded was her face that this remarkable feature produced no uncanny effect, and, for that matter, would have escaped the casual observer's notice. The mouth, shapeless and toothless, with down turned corners and lips dry and parchmentlike, nevertheless lacked the muscular slackness so unusual with age. The lips might have been those of a mummy, save for the impression of rigid firmness they gave. Not that they were atrophied. On the contrary they seemed tense and set with a muscular and spiritual determination. There and in the eyes was the secret of the certitude with which she carried the sacks up the steep steps, with never a false step or overbalance, and emptied them in the grain-bin.

3. By Speech. —A still more effective means of describing characters is to put their qualities in the mouths of other characters, who may be discussing the talents or singularities of the first. This manner of displaying character is unusually forceful; the author is temporarily in the background and the characters themselves, while discussing the faults or abilities of another, may unconsciously bring to light their own personal attributes. Following is an extract from Jane Austin's "Sense and Sensibility":

"I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humored as Lydia. But you are always giving her the preference."

"They have none of them much to recommend them," replied he. "They are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters."

II. Indirect Delineation: I. By Speech and Its Implication.—In moments of stress and emotion, people are rather apt to speak before they think, and from this tendency of human nature we have the warning, "If angry, count ten before you speak." But, if everyone counted ten before they spoke, we might have difficulty in discovering just what people thought of each other and things in general, for it is in moments of emotion that a character is roused sufficiently to speak his mind—to give the key of his feelings—without restraint and without care. In such moments, the things characters say come directly from the heart without reserve —words that have hitherto been sternly suppressed rush forth tempestuously and lead rapidly to a crisis.

We learn also from the word-grouping itself the manner of a character's feeling. If his emotion be that of anger, he will chop his sentences off quickly, while, if his feeling is that of hatred, most likely he will speak deliberately, slowly, clearly --with dynamic emphasis. The following passage from Stevenson's "Markheim" is a conversation in which character is strongly brought out, both by the speeches themselves and the manner of speaking:

"Yes," said the dealer, "our windfalls are of various kinds. Some customers are ignorant, and then I touch a dividend on my superior knowledge. Some are dishonest," and here he held up his candle, so that the light fell strongly on his visitor, "and in that case," he continued, "I profit by my virtue."

Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, and his eyes had not yet grown familiar with the mingled shine and darkness of the shop. At these pointed words, and before the near presence of the flame, he blinked painfully and looked aside.

The dealer chuckled. "You come to me on Christmas day," he resumed, "when you know that I am alone in my house, put up my shutters, and make a point of refusing business. Well, you will have to pay for that; you will have to pay for my loss of time, when I should be balancing my books; you will have to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I remark in you today very strongly. I am the essence of discretion, and I ask no awkward questions; but when a customer cannot look me in the eye, he has to pay for it." The dealer once more chuckled; and then changing to his usual business voice, though still with a note of irony, "You can give, as usual, a clear account of how you came into the possession of the object?" he continued. "Still your uncle's cabinet? A remarkable col-lector, sir !"

And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood almost on tiptoe, looking over the top of his gold spectacles, and nodding his head with every mark of disbelief. Markheim' returned his gaze with one of infinite pity, and a touch of horror.

"This time," said he, "you are in error. I have not come to sell, but to buy. I have no curios to dispose of; my uncle's cabinet is bare to the wainscot; even were it still intact, I have done well on the Stock Exchange, and should more likely add to it than otherwise, and my errand today is simplicity itself. I seek a Christmas present for a lady," he continued, waxing more fluent as he struck into the speech he had prepared; "and certainly I owe you every excuse for thus disturbing you upon so small a matter. But the thing was neglected yesterday; I must produce my little compliment at dinner; and, as you very well know, a rich marriage is not a thing to be neglected."

There followed a pause, during which the dealer seemed to weigh this statement incredulously. The ticking of many clocks among the curious lumber of the shop, and the faint rushing of the cabs in a near thoroughfare, filled up the interval of silence.

"Well, sir," said the dealer, "be it so. You are an old customer after all; and if, as you say, you have the chance of a good marriage, far be it from me to be an obstacle. Here as a nice thing for a lady now," he went on, "this handglass—fifteenth century, warranted ; comes from a good collection, too ; but I reserve the name, in the interests of my (customer, who was, just like yourself, my dear sir, the nephew and sole heir of a remarkable collector."

The dealer, while he thus ran on in his dry and biting voice, had stooped to take the object from its place; and as he had done so, a shock had passed through Markheim, a start both of hand and foot, a sudden leap of many tumultuous passions to the face. It passed as swiftly as it came, and left no trace beyond a certain trembling of the hand that now received the glass.

"A glass," he said hoarsely, and then paused and repeated it more clearly. "A glass? For Christmas? Surely not?"

"And why not?" cried the dealer. "Why not a glass?"

Markheim was looking upon him with an indefinable expression. "You ask me why not?" he said. "Why, look here—look in it-look at it yourself! Do you like to see it? No! nor I—nor any man."

The little man had jumped back when Markheim had so suddenly confronted him with the mirror; but, now perceiving there was nothing worse on hand, he chuckled. "Your future lady, sir, must be pretty hard favored," said he.

"I ask you," said Markheim, "for a Christmas present, and you give me this damned reminder of years, and sins and follies—this hand-conscience! Did you mean it? Had you a thought in your mind? Tell me. It will be better for you if you do. Come, tell me about yourself. I hazard a guess now that in secret you are a very charitable man?"

"What are you driving at?" the dealer asked.

"Not charitable?" returned the other gloomily. "Not charitable, not pious, nor scrupulous; unloving, unbeloved; a hand to get money, a safe to keep it. Is that all? Dear God, man, is that all?"

Throughout all this conversation, Markheim's words are replete with a certain significance. Their meaning can be better understood when it is known that Markheim is a rogue who has several times previously disposed of stolen goods to the dealer. The expression of his face when he speaks of his errand marks him as telling a falsehood. His horror, too, when the dealer presents the glass, displays plainly that he has come on no pleasing errand; very plainly he sees in the mirror the picture of an intended crime, while his words imply plainly his conflict of soul. Still farther on, his endeavors to find some good qualities in the dealer by eagerly asking if he is pious' or charitable, disclose that Markheim is desperately striving to stave off the execution of some horrible act.

2. By Action.—It is a truth universally accepted that action speaks stronger than words. What a person does is what he thinks, for our muscles first must have the authority of our will; before they can move in the execution of some scheme hours or days of planning are required.

The action of the characters, then, may be very suggestive of their worth and thoughts, particularly those actions done in secret and under stress of emotion.

3. By Effect on Other Characters.—Again, we may know characters by their effect on some other person or persons. I may have met, during my travels, some remarkable man who has left a decided imprint and impression upon me. I may tell other people of the effect this individual had on me. I may defend him in an argument in which he is involved, or I may speak of his force of character, showing consciously or otherwise, how it left its power fixed upon me. The piece following, from Conrad's "Heart of Darkness," will illustrate aptly :

"'You don't know how such a life tries a man like Kurtz,' cried Kurtz's last disciple.

"'Well, and you?' I said.

"'I! I ! I am a simple man. I have no great thoughts. I want nothing from anybody. How can you compare me to—?'

"His feelings were too much for speech, and suddenly he broke down.

"'I don't understand,' he groaned. `I've been doing my best to keep him alive, and that's enough. I had no hand in all this. I have no abilities. There hasn't been a drop of medicine or a mouthful of invalid food for months here. He was shamefully abandoned. A man like this, with such ideas. Shamefully! Shamefully! I—1—haven't slept for the last ten nights.' "

Sympathetic Treatment of Characters.—Just as the writer must tell of those phases of life with which he is acquainted, and just as he deals with those emotions and scenes which are nearest to his fancy, so must his characters carry out unmistakably his philosophy of character. If the writer is an admirer of some particular trait of human character, then one of his chief story-actors should embody that trait. Otherwise, the chief actor—hero or heroine—will not be true to the part set aside for him; his actions will fall flat, because they will not seem to come directly from the heart, and nothing he says or does will ring true. It is important, therefore, that the writer use only those characters who will carry out his own ideas along certain lines. If a writer sets down a story in a state of mind antagonistic to all the world, then his villain is very apt to appear in a relatively good light; for the writer will be in sympathy with him and will sketch the heroine or hero indifferently or even sarcastically; or the writer may even make a hero, all unconsciously, of course, out of his villain.

Where to Obtain Characters.—There should be no difficulty in securing characters suitable for any and all emergencies. We need never be perplexed as to just how a character should conduct himself under certain conditions, for we have merely to place ourselves in his place and ask just how we would act. Of course, characters may be. secured by observation of one's friends, acquaintances, and the types one meets on the street, yet such observation serves merely as a starting point. Many very interesting characters there are in every locality, but the points of interest in any particular character can be only the suggestion for a story character. As has already been said, no person could be taken bodily from a real life and put down into the fabric of a story; simply because people are only casually representative of types.

But people, taken as a whole, have the same traits, experience the same emotions and temptations, only in each one of us certain features of character are accentuated. No two people are exactly alike, yet each individual, dormant or other-wise, possesses qualities belonging "to all mankind. Consequently, the writer himself is the best field of study. Look into your own heart and ask yourself how you would react to certain conditions of environment.

Observation, both external and personal, is an excellent method of securing characters, but perhaps the best method of all is the use of the imagination. We have all seen enough of life to know what is and what is not reasonable. Granted, there-fore, that a character is placed in certain circumstances, we have only to exercise our imagination, our memory, and our reason to extricate him to our own satisfaction and the delight of our reader.

Appropriate Names for Characters.—The point of chief importance in devising names for characters is to use only those appellations applying to the condition and character of your personages. Your hero and heroine, if placed in a story of action, will require names in reasonable accordance with the qualities they typify. If, on the other hand, your story is one of character, your actors should be endowed with names in harmony with the traits which they embody. The name Priscilla brings up the picture of a simple, pure, and dainty maiden, while the name Betty suggests a harum-scarum, jolly-good-fellow among girls. Of course, if the ludicrous is to be portrayed, a comedy character might be known as Homer or Raphael.

Delineation Other than That of Character.—Description of character in its various phases has already been treated of above. It will be my purpose now to deal with description of places, sounds, and the like. The writer should first impress ,upon his mind the fact that all description should be, essential to the progress of his story. If a certain place has an important bearing on the development of the story, if it radically affects the course of action, then let it be described by all means, for the clear silhouetting of its details will assist the reader in securing a firmer grasp of the story. But description for description's sake alone is futile as well as dangerous.

Logical Description.—In describing a scene, the writer should deal with the locality in a systematic manner. I may emphasize the device of first describing the main features of a piece of landscape—its outlines, such as the towering peak of some mountain, then the low-hanging bank of clouds, thrown into gorgeous colors by the rising sun. Then, as a closer observation is brought on the scene as the sun rises, I may sketch in tersely and graphically lesser details, beginning either close at hand or far away and drawing near.

Description Appealing to All the Senses.—It should be remembered that description is more than that of place. There is the bringing to the reader's mind the breathing, pulsating, living side of nature. It includes the rumble of the distant thunder—the patter of rain—the roar of the seas —the call of the gull, and a multitude of other sounds and smells and feelings. Thus a man whom the hero of a narrative meets may very suggestively be described by saying that the hero dropped his hand quickly because of its soft, clammy feeling.

As has already been said, two characters may interpret the same scene differently, according to their state of mind. Herewith is presented an excellent means of characterization. A view of one person's emotions may be secured by having him paint a scene optimistically, while another, in different mood, gives the same scene in diametrically opposite terms.

Making Description Swift and Sure.—The author should aim to insert his description by a gradual process in which the most important scenes are dealt with as the action proceeds. In this manner even elaborate pictures may be sifted in by sure, swift, and hardly noticeable touches.

Point of View in Description.—+What we mean by point of view in description is that scenes and sounds and smells should be described from the point of view of the hero or other main personage, for it is in him, his doings and reactions to the setting, that the reader is interested, and it is through his eyes that the reader will visualize the story.

The writer should aim to tell his pictures in the concrete, in terms of his own life and experience. He may do this best by appealing to the reader's senses, to his ears, his eyes, to his sense of feeling, to his smell ; for it is through our senses that we are most acutely attuned to life.

Following are two excellent examples of description, brief, yet powerful and suggestive:

* '* The two, sleek, white, well-bullocks in the court-yard were steadily chewing the cud of their evening meal; Old Pir Khan squatted at the head of Holden's horse, his police sabre across his knees, pulling drowsily at a big water-pipe that croaked like a bullfrog in a pond. Ameera's mother sat spinning on the lower veranda, and the wooden gate was shut and barred. The music of a marriage-procession came to the roof above the gentle hum of the city, and a string of flying-foxes crossed the face of the low 'moon.—Kipling, 'Without Benefit of Clergy."

I raised my eyes and I shall never forget the spectacle I saw. The greater part of the smoke had risen and hung like a canopy about twenty feet above the redoubt. Through a bluish haze one could see the Russian Grenadiers behind their half-destroyed parapet, with arms raised, motionless as statues. It seems to me that I can see now each soldier, with his left eye fastened on us, the right hidden by the levelled musket. In the embrasure, a few yards away, a man stood beside a cannon, holding a fusee'.—Merimee, "The Taking of the Redoubt."

Writing Short Stories: Building The Plot

What Plot Is-Plot consists of the series of incidents which present a picture of life—logical—clear—interesting. In a previous chapter I treated of the types of stories—the places, people, and circumstances from which plot-germs might be obtained. Now that the author possesses an idea, a character, a setting or an emotion to bring out, it is necessary that he devise some system whereby the theme may be developed to the climax and from thence unwound to its natural conclusion. Having his theme ready at hand, the author must establish a framework upon which to exhibit it effectively.

A Bare Working Plot.—Suppose the author takes as his theme the truth that man receives in genuine soul-enjoyment from the world just what he puts into it; that he cannot be so self-centered, so narrow, as to love only himself or one closely related to himself and still hope to grasp life's real meaning. The author, in elaborating this theme, must construct some such working scheme as this: A father, very wealthy, loves his only son deeply and blindly. Though he is wealthy, he thinks not of his neighbor nor of the misery of others; ever-vital to him is his son's welfare. So to punish him, God, through some natural agency, takes his son away from him. The father then comes to realize that there is a loftier view of life than he hitherto had been able to vision. And the broken-hearted father accepts this truth in a Spartan-spirit of humiliation. Such is the theme and the working plan of a famous story which we will have occasion to mention again.

Plot a Perfect Whole Made Up of Related Parts.—Plot is not a mere change in place or time; it is not a mere succession of incidents of only casual relation to each other. Of such a mere succession of incidents would consist the daily life of most people. A business man goes to his office, transacts the regular routine of work, comes home to luncheon, returns to his work, meets a few acquaintances, has several interviews, performs more work, goes out to dinner, takes in a show, or remains at home and reads a book, goes to bed—that's all. Things progress, but nothing of importance happens. If the man, however, were to go home and find his wife had eloped with another man, then discovered that the destroyer of his home had also been instrumental in ruining his business, we would have the beginning of a plot. In ordinary life, however, the business man more likely would settle the matter in court. What promised to be the frame-work of an interesting tale would end up in mere, boresome matter-of-factness. Plot, then, is not merely a succession of incidents; but is rather a growth, a chain, in which each incident is vitally related to every other one, with the incidents which follow and precede each other most intimately connected.

The Natural Growth of Situations Composing a Plot.. Thus, a young shipping clerk writes his name and address on the package of a box of commodities which are being sent to a distant' state. The same package comes to the attention of a certain young girl who, in a spirit of fun, writes to the young man. The letter she writes falls into the hands of the young shipping clerk's working companion. The latter reads the letter to several acquaintances. They plan to write a proposal to the girl, giving the shipping clerk's name and ad-dress. Here we have incidents and situations each growing out of the preceding. The jokers of the story could not have gotten the chance to write the young girl had she not been involved in the plot by the shipping clerk's fancy. And, upon the receipt of the letter, the girl might act in a manner still further to involve the plot. She might be an adventuress hunting for game, or a young author looking for interesting types and so on. At any rate, she might determine to look up the shipping clerk, all unsuspecting of the circumstances shaping themselves to snare him.

From this, the author will see that as the action goes on, the relations of the characters to each other become more intimate, personal, and complicated. The story rises in interest, because each situation is the logical outcome of its predecessor. Matters become more precarious for the shipping clerk, and the reader is unable to see how he is going to avoid a very disagree-able time of it explaining certain things.

Divisions of the Plot `Perhaps this matter of plot-building can be made still more obvious to the author if the plot is divided into its main technical parts. Thus, the plot 1,- a story consists of the Preliminary Situation, the Culmination or Climax, and the Conclusion or Denouement:

Preliminary Situation.—The Preliminary Situation consists of the conditions of the story at its inception. In the Preliminary Situation we are informed of the time, the setting, characters on the scene, and the incidents leading up to the story. As soon as the characters meet and move, we have the first incident. Thus, as soon as the shipping clerk had written down his name, the story was off. Everything before that, including description of the clerk, giving of time, place and condition, and so on, made up the Preliminary Situation.

Climax and Conclusion.—The plot then progresses step by step, incident by incident, until the height of suspense—the Climax—has been reached. Between the Preliminary Situation and the Climax, inclusive, come all the most important elements that go to make up the strong plot—the crises and suspense. Each stepping-up place on the stair of the plot that leads to the Climax ordinarily marks a minor crisis, each crisis growing in interest and suspense until the Climax has been reached. As the story progresses, the combined crises blend their accumulated force into one grand complication—the Culmination. Each minor crisis marks the point at which the action of the plot becomes more deeply involved for one or more of the characters and during which some one emotion is brought to the fore. It may be pained surprise, as when a man finds out that his best friend has betrayed him, or the discovery by Government officials that very important state papers have been stolen.

Creating Suspense,—Suspense is introduced into the plot by means of opposition to the natural course of events. Thus, let us consider again the hypothetical case of the business man who finds his wife gone away with another man. Suppose that the wife, after going a short distance on her journey of elopement, decides that she is committing a crime both against society and a faithful husband. At the first stop, she manages to send a telegram informing her husband that she will be at such and such a place at a certain hour and praying him to come get her, to save her from the consequences of the fearful act she has committed. Now the matter of suspense may here be introduced at either or both ends of the strand of complication. Thus, the wife may be prevented from sending the telegram to her husband; the man with whom she is eloping may intercept it through some clever method ; or the husband, while coming home from work, may be interrupted in such a fashion that he gets home too late to meet his wife at the time and place specified in the telegram. The greater the issues to be brought to a happy close, the more suspense-arousing will be the opposition which temporarily delays this happy conclusion.

Undivided Attention.—Of prime importance in constructing a finely-balanced and artistic plot are the elements of continuity and undivided attention. The meaning of these terms is self-explanatory. We later on will speak of the value of unity of impression and caution the author against the use of a single unnecessary character, piece of setting, sub-plot or any one act which would even slightly detract from the most economical, while at the same time the most emphatic, elaboration of the theme. Anything which is not pertinent clogs and confuses'. Every single moment the characters are not moving rapidly forward, desperately endeavoring to solve their difficulties the reader is driven to distraction, and silently implores the author to get his thinking machine back on the right course again.

Concerning an uninterrupted forward procession of events, Poe has said : "A mere succession of incidents, even the most spirited, will no more constitute a plot than a multiplication of zeroes, even the most infinite, will result in the production of a unit. This we all admit,—but few trouble themselves to think further. The common notion seems to be in favor of mere complexity; but a plot, properly understood, is perfect only inasmuch as we shall find ourselves unable to detach from it or disarrange any single incident involved, without destruction to the mass. Practically, we may consider a plot as of high excellence when no one of its component parts shall be susceptible of removal without detriment to the whole."

Originality.—Originality in the plot involves the author's method of developing his plot-germ. The latter, usually in the form of a theme, or a queer, singular situation, may be hackneyed; however, all great and elemental emotions upon which so very many stories are founded, are hackneyed and commonplace. Hence, it matters little what theme the author chooses to exhibit in his story. The great matter of importance is the way in which the theme is elaborated. If the author merely follows in the rut worn by the writers who have preceded him, then already he is doomed to failure. He should choose those situations that have possibilities of greatest development; that is, that might be solved in a number of ways.

Making an Old Situation Seem New.—Often, how-ever, the author will wish to choose for his story a certain situation which already has served as the starting point of a good many stories. Take, for example, the incipient incident of so many stories in which a helpless babe is left on the door-steps of a house to the mercy of the persons within. One author decided to give this threadbare situation a new twist by making the house upon whose steps the babe is placed an apartment for bachelors. He then had the child discovered by three young bachelors, who, unitedly, declared themselves the rightful guardians of the bit of humanity at their feet. Any writer now will realize that wonderful possibilities had been opened up for the development of the initial situation. The future destiny of, the child would be determined according to the influence, not merely one, but three, people exerted upon him. The characters and the future course in life of the three bachelors likewise would be vitally changed by the entrance of the child into their orbit of existence.

Any ordinary, commonplace situation, the constituents of which are reversed, enlarged, or warped out of their natural order, will serve excellently as a jumping-off place for the plot. Thus, all of us are acquainted with the news item which informs us that a mad dog bit so-and-so in the leg, but I hardly can imagine that anyone has ever read, heard, or seen aught of the madman who bit a dog. The circumstances are exaggerated, but they serve as an example of the possible course of procedure.

The Point from Which to Start Your Plot.—The young author may start to build his plot from any point he desires. There will be a certain situation, idea or intention in his mind that shines out with particular light. He will then naturally develop his plot from that attractive situation or idea, whether or not the situation be of minor or major importance in the completed plot. Thus, that fascinating story, "Robinson Crusoe," might very well have been suggested by the author seeing somewhere the imprint of the human foot. Defoe might have asked himself as to the nature of the conditions under which a man would be most fright-fully astonished by the sight of the imprint of the human foot. Most obviously the answer suggests itself : in a clime far removed from his own, or on an island where no one else resided, at a time when a visitor was least expected.

Writing Short Stories: Exercise In Plot Building

Perhaps the best manner in which the young writer can become most intimately acquainted with the processes of plot-building is to have stories built up and taken down right before his eyes. I cannot urge you too strongly to study all the stories you read, after you have first read them for the pleasure derived. Find the theme or the underlined situation, then consider the various steps the author has taken to bring out the full force of that idea or theme with the least possible waste of time and effort. Because of the value that both the synthetic and analytic method have in studying the possibilities of plot development, I will take up various themes and situations with a view of showing you just how stories may be developed, with proper prominence given to the lesser and greater elements.

A Story of Married Life.—The life of newlyweds is a prolific field for stories. Perhaps, if you are a woman, you yourself have been advised by friends and relatives regarding how you should treat your husband, things you should do to make yourself attractive in his eyes, together with a vast array of hints, suggestions and caution regarding your conduct with him. Undoubtedly, some of the advice has been good, but the chances are that the greater bulk of it has been pure bunk. No person can advise another regarding his or her conduct, for a person's conduct under any situation or circumstance is based upon the circumstances themselves and the difference in that person's character. But, providing that you are the average person with a sense of humor, some of the advice you got may have been very amusing to you. It might well have set you thinking. You say to yourself, "Suppose I had followed some of this advice that was so profusely offered me. What would have happened to me? Suppose I had been gullible enough to do as I was told"

You will see that right here we have the situation for a story. A young girl, we will suppose, is on the point of marriage. She has tea with an old friend of hers, a woman long married--sophisticated—of much experience—given to the proffering of much advice. Perhaps the advisor's married life has not been very successful. Some mistakes of her own have made her bitter or skeptical towards men in general. She would' like to see her young girl friend base her conduct toward her husband on the older woman's own opinions. At least, she 'would like to see the experiment carried out. Perhaps this woman talked to the young girl something like this : "We have to take them as we find them. Now, if you start out as the snuggling and exacting and clinging bridelet, Barry will adore you—but for the best part of a month. After that, you will be as cloying to him as a gallon of grenadine syrup. He'll tire of you. And he'll seek pleasure elsewhere. It's at such a crisis that the average marital bark first hits the rocks. And it never gets wholly clear of them. It will mean endless suffering to you and endless boredom to him.

"Begin your married life as you mean to go on with it. Be chary of caresses. Keep him guessing; and let his guesses be pessimistic. Don't be cold to him. Just be cool—coolly and sweetly indifferent. Don't weaken an inch on that attitude. Be interested in other men."

And the young girl very readily absorbs it all and resolves to carry out the supposedly well-meant advice of her friend.

Development of the Suggested Situation. Here is a situation. The young girl marries her hero. Then, in pursuance of her friend's suggestions, she is cooly and sweetly indifferent. To the men with whom she comes into contact she shows more cordiality than she does to her own husband. Herein enters conflict—suspense—opposition. Naturally, the husband loves his wife and if there is any manhood to him, his wife's actions are going to hurt. He may become insanely jealous and: the story might end tragically. But we must have no unhappy endings, and, whatever else happens, the climax must come about in an original, though plausible, fashion. Are we going to have the young bride getting herself in trouble and awakening to the horror of the philosophy upon which', she has embarked? Or are we going to have the husband doing something that will bring forceably to the bride's attention the error of her ways. This situation admits of a multitude of developments.

Now let's see. If we were not going to be careful about making our story original, then perhaps we would introduce some varation of the eternal triangle in which the wife, through the cordiality of her manners towards another man other than her husband, becomes involved in scandal which incenses her jealous husband, presuming he is jealous. But such a method is too ordinary, too trite. Let us get away from the old way. Let us impress the lesson that must be impressed far more delightfully.

Introducing Suspense.—Now how can we heighten the suspense of the story? How can we pique the curiosity of the reader, then maintain it at a feverish height right up to the very last word? Ali, why cannot the husband, the hero, follow out the same strategy of the wife? If he gives her tit for tat, he will have her guessing at a terrific rate, as she will have him. The reader, in turn, will be absolutely unawares as to how this dilemma can solve itself. We have it! The husband himself also calls upon the friendly advisor already spoken of as having advised the young bride and who, knowing the young man fully as well as she does the young girl, advises him along similar lines. It will be interesting to see who weakens first in this little game of hearts.. that is being played.

Leading Up to the Climax.—Now, in order to have our two principals slip deeper and deeper into their mistaken attitudes, we must have them going about quite a bit, the young woman to be admired and surrounded by men, the husband to pay particular attention to other women. And, inasmuch as a storm usually is preceded by anonymous quiet, the bride's and groom's relations to each other should not be suggestive of any crisis. The storm, when it breaks, will thereby be in greater contrast.

The Main Crisis.—Now, obviously, this matter of leading up to the climax has gone about far enough. The reader will have been fully acquainted with the situations and the initial complications that put the woman and the man in their strange attitude. Let us now, without further delay, involve one or the other of them in the main crisis. Perhaps it had better be the girl, with her innocence and unsophistication, that should be involved with some other man. The husband, with his lesser control of temper, may then break forth in true masculine form. So we shall have the young girl involved with the man. The type of man that will break the husband's endurance in the farcial game we are playing, will be a man of very questionable character---a rounder—a roue—a man of conquest, with great fascination for women. The wife must meet him innocently, openly and without guile, for it must be remembered that she is playing the game to keep the love of her husband and for no special liking of, it. To make the meeting of the young bride and the villain conventional, it should occur at some social function, perhaps at a ball. The villain, carried away by the great innocence and charm of the bride suggests that they dash down-town to one of the cafes for a bite. The man should be extremely attentive to the bride, while she should receive his attentions with considerable pleasure, simulated if not real'. Now, in order to bring about the climax, the husband' himself must see the two depart. Knowing the character of the man, he seems to feel that the wife is be-coming hover-intimate by leaving the ball with the villain. He perhaps finds it difficult to contain himself.

Storm Is Imminent.—The young girl and her companion find a table at the cafe where they enjoy themselves with considerable hilarity. Here again the huuband should be introduced. He himself, in maintaining his assumed role, has been attentive to other women at the ball, to one in particular, so that ',perhaps this very attentiveness to another women on his part' has been the factor in the bride going to dine with the questionable companion. We will say that the husband enters the cafe with a lady friend where he notes the intimate conversation occurring between his wife and her companion. Perhaps he finds it still more difficult to contain himself, though outwardly he maintains a calm demeanor.

The Climax.—The girl leaves the cafe for home. Half an hour later her husband returns. The wife's maid is in attendance upon her. The husband goes up to his room—for a moment it seems as if the climax is to be averted. But, upon the departure of the wife's maid for her room, he traverses the hallway, flings open the door of his wife's suite and stamps into the room. His wife is sitting in a deep chair, her eyes fixed cryptically on a tiny fire that twinkles on the hearth. At the sound of her husband's approach, she looks quickly around. Then a little cry of dismay breaks from her, startled lips.

Her husband's face is black with wrath. The temple veins stand out like a tangle of baby snakes. His eyes are smoldering; his lips twitching. Straight up to his astonished wife he strides and clutches her roughly by the shoulder.

"Look here!" he rages, his voice thick and incoherent. "Here is where it stops!"

The husband then furiously declares that he will not play the dirty game any longer. He feels like killing her, that she would associate so intimately with such a swine as accompanied her that night. And he swears he will kill her if she ever does it again. He announces that if their mode of life is married life, then he'd rather go to the "chair" for ending it in a he-man way. He does not and will not go on as they have been.

Then, in a woman's way, she will cry. In response to her husband's statement that he is through, that he has done his best to keep her, love, she responds :

"Your best? Your worst, you mean!"

"My best!" he reiterates "I have followed Mrs. Verplanck's wise advice."

The Conclusion.—The secret is out, the man blurts out his story. The two compare notes and both feel that they have been persuaded into following a false idea. The man informs his wife that the well-meaning Mrs. Verplanck had advised him to keep his wife guessing, to let her flirt and encourage it, as well as do a bit of flirting himself. Explanations follow and they find that they are two poor dupes.

The husband then decrees that, "Tomorrow night we're going to have steak and onions and apple pie for dinner. Then, in the evening, you're going to knit by this fire. And I'm going to read David Copperfield aloud to you. And we're going to turn my room into a guest room. And fire my man and that wooden-faced French maid of yours."

Interpretation of This Story.—There you are. Now what meaning is to be gotten from this story? A number of them. First, that a man and woman, truly in love with one another, cannot live aloof from the affections that are theirs by all the rights of love and law. We see that true love is not shown merely in little courtesies and in ordinary conventionalities. That a man who truly loves his wife cannot see her too attentive to another man, and vice versa. The story means also that there are many well-meaning people in this world willing to give advice on all subjects. It would be just as well to avoid this advice and to follow the dictates of one's own heart. We see that true love is not always a thing that can be lead, but that must be followed.

Points of Interest.—Now you may plainly see that one of these themes very easily serves as a basis for the story outlined. And the story outlined is an actual story, "The Woman of Experience," by title; the author, Albert Payson Terhune. The writer of this tale evidently is an astute observer of married ,life, for he has woven, through the medium of dialogue, some very pungent statements regarding married life. Thus, the following: "We were. The only trouble was that he tired of it before I knew anyone. could tire. He was very discreet and thoughtful about it all. But `business' began to call him away from home. And, by sheer luck—ill luck, at that—I happened to find out what that `business' was. Their name was legion. He was an inspired polygamist, Ashur was. No, it wasn't a `she.' It was a `they.' To the end of his days, he never could be made to understand that polygamy is an effort to get more out of life than life contains. At first I wanted to die. Then I wanted him to die. Then I grew sane. I picked up what was left of the sorry game and went on playing it. And I grew to understand where my big mistake had been. I could have kept Ashur Verplanck slavishly devoted to me, if I hadn't let him see I was slavishly devoted to him. And I want to save you from what I lived through. It can be done. And I'm going to tell you how."

The above quotation applies to Aunt Hilda's experiences of marriage and does not necessarily chronicle the experience of the majority of married folks.

Now I won't venture to state upon what particular one of the themes mentioned Mr. Terhune based his story. Inasmuch, however, as the title of the story is "The Woman of Experience," I am inclined to believe that this script has as its initial theme the idea of a woman who has been unsuccessful in her married life advising a young married couple to conduct themselves in such a manner that the flame of love would be kept eternally burning. Perhaps she did not realize the complications her suggestions would lead the main characters into, but she was gambler enough to want to see the suggestion carried out. At any rate, the same plot could have been constructed from any one of the themes suggested.

Mechanics of the Story.—This story is told in about 3500 words. I am inclined to believe that the ordinary writer, in developing this identical plot, would have consumed at least six thousand words in doing so. To show such characters as the bride and groom assuming a wrong attitude toward married life, bringing the story to a point of climax, and impressing interestingly the foolishness of an attempt to live as they were, together with explanations, would have to be treated with consummate skill to keep it within 3500 words. There could be little philosophizing, or description, or long narrative. The story would have to consist almost entirely of revealing and significant dialogue, direct action, and a quick approach to the climax, as Mr. Terhune does very cleverly.

The story starts off very admirably with the friendly advisor, Mrs. Verplanck, giving advice to the heroine, Audrey. About 1200 words or so of the story is consumed in her advising the young girl how she is to conduct herself with her husband. Naturally, in doing so, she must prove to the satisfaction of the young girl that the advise given is invaluable. This space must be taken up in a conversation between the two, the girl remonstrating, the woman urging, in order that the woman's arguments be shattered with one stroke at the point of climax and in the peaceful reconciliation at the end of the story. No hint is given that Mrs. Verplanck ad-vises the husband the same as she does the wife. This is to come as a surprise. It is to be the twist or the unexpected that startles the reader, that imparts the delightful snap at the ending of the story.

After about 1700 words, the author places the bride and groom in a social world, in which the two proceed to carry on. He then proceeds rapidly with a brief narrative of the principals' treatment of each other and of other men and women. The following two paragraphs touch briefly upon their ad-ventures leading up to the main crisis :

From the outset of that New York winter, the young Laidlaws were a puzzle to their friends. Instead of be-ginning their married career by avoiding all intruders and seeking to be alone together all the time, and then gradually becoming normal and drifting a bit apart—they were like a middle-aged married couple. They welcomed any form of diversion. The big-eyed little wife treated her good-looking husband as though he were some not-too interesting acquaintance. And she accepted the wholesale attentions from the men of his set. The two plunged into the gayest of gay winters.

At cabarets, when women with bobbed or doubtful hair gazed languorously at Barry, his wife did not honor the would-be vampires with a second glance. At dances, when Audrey "sat out," six times in succession, with some Lothario in secluded corners, Barry did not so much as frown. They were an ideal couple; as up-to-the-minute couples go. They seemed to have a pleasantly friendly modus vivendi and were content to give each other full rein.

The author then plunges directly into the main crisis, which he begins thusly :

It was along toward twelve o'clock when Roy Mayhew dared Audrey to slip away from the dance with him for a half-hour at the Cafe Suzette; the newest and most audacious of the various supper clubs that had sprung, mushroom-like, into life in the Forties, off Fifth Avenue. And Audrey—albeit with a little catch of her breath—accepted the dare. She cast a glance over her shoulder toward Barry. He was in an alcove, bending very closely over Blanch Durham, a divorcee of husband-snatching tastes. He caught Audrey's eye and nodded smilingly to her; then bent once more above the half-recumbent woman on the alcove couch.

The story runs on for three or four more paragraphs narrating the rather shady character of the cafe to which they have come, describing the way in which various individuals, recognizing the girl and her unscrupulous escort, glance suggestively and puzzlingly at them. At this point in the story, the author introduces the husband, who enters. Nest-ling confidingly and loving beside him is another woman. In the next paragraph:

Instantly, everyone in the room who knew the Laidlaws by sight turned to gaze in breathless interest at the chance meeting between husband and wife. And, alas, everybody was grievously disappointed! For, though the Cafe Suzette is scarce the kind of place where a man and his bride would care to be seen by each other, in company with illicit companions, yet both Barry and Audrey carried off the situation perfectly.

They smiled pleasantly, even warmly, understandingly. Then the cordial smile of each included the other's partner. And Audrey and Mayhew continued on the way to their table, while the head waiter piloted Blanch and her escort to another end of the room. Twice, later, during dances, the two couples were within smiling distance. And, both times, the jolly salutations were repeated.

"H'm !" grunted old Colonel Manning, to the super-costly chorus damsel who was enlivening his evening. "Those youngsters are either on the verge of a mutually arranged divorce or else they are starting their married life in a' way that I'd give a million dollars to have started mine!"

The girl then returns home, after which does the husband, when the story concludes in the manner formally related.

Approximately two-thirds of this story is told in dialogue, the remainder is narrative, exposition, and description. The narrative,' where it occurs, is direct and vivid, the description brief andgraphic but very interesting and revealing, though cynical. A keen, humorous eye for seeking out certain truths is revealed in the following paragraph of narration and description: Six weeks later Audrey and Barrington Laidlaw were united in the holy bonds of wedlock at St. Thomas's Church in the presence of something like a thousand invited on-lookers; while several thousand more New Yorkers peered owlishly at the awning between church door and curb—an awning erected to protect guests from the baleful effects of a flawlessly beautiful afternoon. A white-surpliced rector received a fat fee for performing the brief and terrific ceremony. A surpliced, full choir received a fatter fee for chanting the Lohengrin bridal chorus. An obese Metropolitan Opera star received the fattest fee for squalling "The Voice That Breathed O'er Eden," fortissimo, from behind a screen of orchids. Above the couple and careen into the church's stones stood forth the dollar mark and other cynical emblems which the joke loving architect had woven into the tracery of his friezes, and which the worshipers had not yet bothered to discern. And, thus auspicesed, the two lovers became man and wife.

This Story a Simple Structure.—You will note that the plot of this story is very simple indeed. There are no melodramatic, hysterical complications to send the reader into a fever. No, indeed, such great demonstrations are not at all indispensable in story telling, and I venture to state that the ordinary reader would get far more out of this story than from any garishly painted tale of a shipwreck on a deserted island, where the hero and heroine are seized by savages of cannibalistic tendencies.

Sustaining the Reader's Curiosity..—The interest of this tale is sustained by the curiosity of the reader to learn how such a foolish game finally will end. And this interest in the outcome of the story is greatly assisted by the bizarre and humorous observations of married life by the author, as revealed through the dialogue of the characters themselves.

The Quiet Before the Climax.—Like a bolt from the blue comes the climax. Everything seems to be progressing easily and calmly. The course upon which the two have embarked seems to give forth all promises of success. Then, of a sudden, the deluge. As before related, Barry, the groom, returns home from the affair half an hour after his wife. The writer plunges into the climax as follows:

When Barry came home, half an hour later, he glanced in at Audrey's dressing room as he passed down the hall on the way to his own. Through the partly opened door, he saw her lounging in a deep chair, her maid busy with the shining masses of her hair. And he repeated his friendly "Good night!" Merrily, from the depths of the big chair, she answered him, adding:.

"Have a good time?"

"I' did, indeed!" he called back from half down the hall-way. "Didn't you?"

Her laughing response followed him along the hall and to the entrance of his own suite. Barry went into his room, hesitated an instant, then dismissed his drowsy man for the night. After which he stood where he was, head bent, fists clenched, until he heard his wife's maid patter up the service stairs ten minutes later.

Then, in four strides he traversed the hallway, flung open the door of Audrey's suite, without knocking, and stamped into the room.

Then, threats, incriminations, revelations, and explanations, then a great and sweet relief from this world of make-believe.

The Manner of Ending.—The story begins and ends with dialogue. The ending is reminiscent of the beginning and sounds the tone of the beginning. Thus:

"Oh!" she sighed in utter rapture as she gazed maternally down on him from her throne on his knee. "Won't it be gloriously heavenly? Only—only we must both promise solemnly never—never to tell Aunt Hilda. It would break her poor heart!"

Making the Complication.—Aunt Hilda, of course, is the too solicitous advisor—the Mrs. Verplanck. The author, in creating two characters who are playing the same game all unbeknown to one another, brings in a slight touch of coincidence, in that both bride and groom are advised by Mrs. Verplanck in the same manner. Now, though this is slightly coincidental, it is entirely possible and plausible, in that both principals are well acquainted with Mrs. Verplanck. Obviously, however, inasmuch as the two main characters must act along certain lines to bring out the story in the same manner related, some such a mutual acquaintance or relative as Mrs. Verplanck is required in order to advise identically in both cases.

The Use of Coincidence

Now, while it is permissible that a plausible and convincing coincidence plunge the characters of a story into complications, coincidence must stop there. It may get characters into, trouble, but it must not get them out of trouble. In struggling free from a complication, the hero must use his own resources, while the heroine must depend upon her cleverness, her charm, or some other resource of her personality. The reader is not convinced when the writer employs some unlikely coincidence to solve the complication that he seemingly is unable to solve sensibly. If the author gets his characters into complications that he cannot solve other than by some strange coincidence, then he is only making matters worse by further resort to coincidence. You will notice that Mr. Terhune has not tampered with his characters in one particle after complications have been created ; he leaves the outcome to their natural tendencies.

The Difference Between Real and Story Life.—Now, it is hardly likely that in actual life two people of a like or similar nature to those characterized in this story would have acted throughout in the manner we have related. Suppose that the man and the girl were advised by some friend or relative exactly as in the story. It is very unlikely that the two of them could have sustained their falsely conceived role to such a point that the climax could have arrived at such an opportune moment. The author, however, has certain preconceived effects in mind that he must impress. He knows he must do it in as brief as possible a time, with the greatest economy of means, and with a choice of incidents that will arouse 'the interest, the suspense, the emotions of the reader. 'Consequently, he must conceive characters of a certain typical nature, and must have them doing certain things in such an exact, though plausible, way that the climax will be quickly arrived at. In ordinary life, the husband or groom might scoff at the advice of Mrs. Verplanck. Or the young girl might have become huffed at the attitude of the husband and left him to live with her mother. Or the husband, in his attentiveness to some other woman, might readily have become infatuated with her. Or his pride might have prevented him even from becoming angry with her and in calling a stop to the whole business. But that would not have been at all in line with the author's aim. His characters had to do certain things and bring out certain effects, and as long as he could' make them perform action, plausibly and true to nature, that would help him to bring out those ends and aims, lie certainly was bound to do so. Thus, while an author's characters should be portrayed as doing things true to nature, things that could and might be done, it is hardly ever likely that the actions of real persons would be so precise as to bring about a clearly defined climax. People, according to their lights, usually are going off at tangents---changing their minds—forgetting their differences—patching up their quarrels —constantly digressing from their main purposes.

A Theme Involving Greater Conflict.—Now let us cast about for another theme of a different type. Let us consider a theme that has a higher emotional value, that will arouse greater suspense, and that will carry the reader to a higher pitch of anxiety regarding the outcome of characters in turmoil. Turmoil is possible only during conflict, so it is a theme promising conflict that we must seek for. To find such a theme, we must find some element or phase of life set in opposition to another.

Duty Against Love.—How would it be to consider a character bound by duty on the one hand and urged by his desires or by the exigencies of a circumstance on the other? Here we have a man's duty set against something that prevents him from performing that duty. We must ask -ourselves now what is one of the strongest forces in the world that would cause a man to hesitate at the performance of a duty. What greater force in the world is there than to set against the performing of duty than love? Here we have a theme: A man's duty set against his love for some person, some ideal, or ambition, which theme has formed the foundations for stories from beginning of time.

Development of the Duty and the Love.—Undoubtedly a story in which the woman is the recipient of the love would have the most popular appeal. Now to make the hero of the story bring out the meaning of the theme interestingly and clearly, we must give him a duty that it is extremely necessary to preform at a certain place and time and under certain circumstances at the same time that we portray the woman in some great danger. It can be seen at this point that the climax of the story will occur at the period where the man decides between love and duty and we know the result thereof. After he has chosen, his struggle between the two conflicting forces rapidly loses its interest for the reader. The duty to be chosen is not vital, though it should concern itself with some ordinary occupation in life so that the reader can imagine himself in a like situation.

Duty and the Loved One.—The question now con-fronts us, what shall be the duty and what shall be the danger confronting the loved one, whereby the hero will have his struggle? Such a question is not difficult to answer. Readers are far more interested in the reactions of characters upon themselves, rather than in the reaction of characters to events. Let us have the hero's loved one in danger from some other man; then, in addition to emotions of fear for her safety, might be added the greater force of jealousy, hate, and anger.

Phases of the Duty.—Now we have only to solve the question, what duty could demand a man's closest attention, even though he knows his loved one is in danger? Why, the thought 'strikes us, some duty in which other individuals will be prevented from horrible death. There it is! Our hero shall be a signal tower operator. His duty shall be to see that trains rushing towards one another in the blackness of night shall be cautiously piloted on to their scheduled tracks. Upon his hands shall rest the fate of hundreds.

Increasing the Story Values.—But somehow this structure so far built up does not seem to satisfy. The execution of the hero's duty under duress, even knowing his loved one is in danger, might seem too ordinary. We must make the preformance of his duty even of a finer and more outstanding quality. How can we make his sacrifice still greater, for we surely have decided by this time that we are going to have our hero performing his duty and saving the innocent passengers of the train already spoken of. Come to think of it, what sacrifice on the hero's part could be greater than the assumption of a rival's duty, this rival sketched as the person who is to place the hero's loved one in danger? This thought brings further solution. The rival of the hero will be the hero's co-worker at the signal tower, whom he is supposed to release at certain intervals. The rival falls down on the job or premeditatedly shirks his duty, whereat the hero steps in even while he is agonizingly wondering what has become of his loved one.

The Villain.—We already see the character of the rival. We know what kind of a man he would be to shirk his duty. As to the hero, we can make his anguish for his loved one still more pronounced by having her his wife.

The Finishing Touches.—Now the story is beginning to shape itself. With the addition of a few extra details, the plot-structure will be ready for actual development. The pro-per atmosphere for a story of this kind would be a dark, even stormy, night on the outskirts of a town, somewhat remote from any assistance that might be attracted by a scream. The worker of a signal tower naturally would have his home somewhere near the signal tower, while a signal tower, in turn, usually is situated far from any nearby habitats. Such a location renders the designs of the rival more easy of accomplishment and piques the anxiety of the hero to a greater pitch. Inasmuch as the whole of the story centers about the hero's conflict with love and duty, it is the purpose of the writer to get to this climax as briefly as possible. The characters of the story should be few in number and their relationship sketched in a few, suggestive words, of both direct and indirect delineation.

Let us see what we have to work upon. We have the hero of this tale who leaves his home upon a certain dark night to relieve his rival at the signal tower. Now, to the thinking person's mind it will be foolish to make this rival a long-standing admirer of the hero's wife, for that takes us too far back and requires too much explanation and the like. It should be the artistic purpose of the builder of a plot to use as few characters in his story as possible and make the action of the story occur in as brief a space and time as is possible. So it is the part of wisdom to designate the rival as such through some action or attitude of his just lately occurring. Let us handle this story in the space of the single night upon which the train wreck is averted. Returning to the hero, he arrives at the station tower to relieve the villainous rival. Since the latter is not to be pictured in the best of light, perhaps we had better make him a vindictive, cruel sort of a fellow addicted to strong drink, under the influence of which he is this eventful night. Now if the hero is to find it necessary to perform the duties of his rival whom he relieves and who does not return at the usual time, we must have someone or something bringing to the husband news of the wife's danger at the hands of the villain. At this very time the hero is confronted with the necessity of sudden action in order to avert disaster to two trains that are hurtling themselves toward one another in the black night. Now you say : If someone can bring to the husband news of his wife's danger, why can not that person render immediate assistance? But suppose the carrier of the tidings is a small child, what then? Let us make this little messenger the small son of the signal tower operator and his wife.

Now have we done everything in our power to make this story dramatically strong and emotionally of great tensity? The hero's anxiety regarding the safety of his wife can greatly be heightened by a taunt from the villain to the effect that the latter is going to visit the hero's wife that night to see if she does not prefer him to her husband. He then departs, ostensibly for the purpose of carrying out his avowed mission, while the hero is forced to stay at his post, even though his own vigil has elapsed and he is working on his rival's time. Then, as the two trains race closer and closer and disaster becomes more imminent, it should be an opportune time to have the little boy rush into the signal tower with the message that his mother sent him to his daddy for help, that the rival was attacking her and she was in great danger. The trains have not as yet been taken care of, however, and, no matter what the danger to his loved ones, the signal tower operator must look after the precious cargo that, by a little slip, would be sent crashing into eternity. Here is the point of greatest climax—of greatest dramatic power--of greatest heart appeal.

Actual Development of Story.—Incidentally, this plot is the actual working scheme of the story, "The Signal Tower," by Wadsworth's Camp, which appeared in Metropolitan Magazine. The story is largely one in dialogue, the characters revealing their emotions and intentions and characterizations by what they say more than by what they do. The small amount of pure narrative contained in this story is told in brief, terse sentences, expressing deeply the agony of mind borne by the hero at the crucial point of the plot. I quote freely, in order to show you clearly just how the author so admirably has developed his subject. The story starts out:

"I get afraid when you leave me alone this way at night."

The big man, Tolliver, patted his wife's head. His coarse laughter was meant to reassure, but, as he glanced about the living-room of his remote and cheerless house, his eyes were uneasy. The little boy, just six years old, crouched by the cook-stove, whimpering over the remains of his supper.

"What are you afraid of?" Tolliver scoffed.

The stagnant loneliness, the perpetual drudgery, had not yet conquered his wife's beauty, dark and desirable. She motioned towards the boy.

"He's afraid, too, when the sun goes down."

Tolliver lifted the tin pail that contained a small bottle of coffee and some sandwiches. He started for the door, but she ran after him, dragging at his arm.

"Don't go! I'm afraid!"

The child was quiet now, staring at them with round, reflective eyes.

"Joe," Tolliver said gently, "will be sore if I don't relieve him on time."

She pressed her head against his coat and clung tighter. He closed his eyes.

"You're afraid of Joe," he said wearily.

Without looking up, she nodded. Her voice was muffled.

"He came last night after you relieved him at the tower. He knocked, and I wouldn't let him in. It made him mad. He swore. He threatened. He said he'd come back. He said he'd show us we couldn't kick him out of the house just because he couldn't help liking me. We never ought to have let him board here at all."

Note how the author plunges into the dominant tone of the story and mentions the uneasy eyes of the hero as he attempts to reassure his wife. Joe, identified as the villain, seems to be the one who will cause the conflict that is to come. In the first few paragraphs, the reader gets an intimate idea of the surroundings, the atmosphere, and becomes more or less acquainted with the story's four main characters.

Tolliver departs for the signal tower after promising his wife that he will have a talk with Joe. As his wife evinces a premonition that something will happen, Tolliver takes the boy with him, promising to send him back home with some-thing that will make the wife feel easier. The father and ion reach the signal tower. Then:

When Tolliver's head was above the level of the flooring he could see the switch levers, and the table, gleaming with the telegraph instruments, and dull with untidy clips of yellow paper; but the detail that held him was the gross, expectant face of Joe.

Joe was as large as Tolliver, and younger. From that commanding position, he appeared gigantic.

"Cutting it pretty fine," he grumbled.

"Tolliver shook his head. He placed his hands on his hips.

"That's one thing I want to say to you, Joe. Just you keep away from the house. Thought you understood that When you got fresh with Sally the other night."

Joe's face flushed angrily.

"Guess I was a fool to say I was sorry about that. Guess I got to teach you I got a right to go where I please'."

As Joe' is departing, Tolliver notices a special telegram. Joe answers:

"Forgot," he said as his head came through the trap. "Some big-wigs coming through on a special train along about midnight. Division headquarters got nothing definite yet, but figure we'll have to get her past thirty-three somewhere on this stretch. So keep awake."

Note that after the story has progressed only a few hundred words, mention is made of a special train due along about midnight. Already the author is working rapidly toward his climax.

After the departure of Joe, Tolliver attends to some of his special duties, then taking a polished six-shooter from a drawer in the tower, hands it to his boy with instructions to hasten home with it. After the departure of the child, Tolliver studies out the special forms before him. He sees that it will be incumbent upon him to follow carefully the schedule of number thirty-three, the road's most treacherous responsibility, a fast pullman train that passes over the division. At this time of the year it run crowded and erratic; more often than not, late.

As Tolliver tends to his duties, his mind is constantly returning to Joe and his wife. He wonders where Joe is—whether or not he is at the Inn drinking—what the outcome will be—whether. or not his son arrived home safely. Suddenly he receives instructions from division headquarters to hold twenty-one until thirty-three and a special train containing company officials have cleared. Twenty-one is a freight running on the main track. As Tolliver's anxiety increases, he receives a special message from division superintendent:

"NT. NT. NT. Is it storming bad with you?" "Pretty thick."

"Then keep the fuses burning. For God's sake, don't let the first in over-run his switch. And clear the line like lightning. Those fellows are driving faster than hell."

Tolliver's mouth opened, but no sound came. His face assumed the expression of one who undergoes the application of some destructive barbarity.

"I get afraid when, you leave me alone this way at night."

He visualized his wife, beautiful, dark, and desirable, urging him not to go to the tower.

A gust of wind sprang through the trap door. The yellow slips fluttered. He heard the lower door bang shut. Someone was on the stairs, climbing with difficulty, breathing hard. A hat, crusted with snow, appeared. There came slowly into the light ,Joe's face, ugly and in-flamed ; the eyes restless with a grave indecision.

Tolliver's first elation died in new uncertainty. "Where have you been?" he demanded fiercely.

"Don't you wish you knew?"

Tolliver stooped, grasping the man's shoulder. In each fist he clenched bunches of wet cloth. In a sort of desperation he commenced to shake the bundled figure.

"You tell me where you have been—"

"NT. NT. NT."

"Switch whichever arrives first, and hold until the other is through."

It was difficult to understand clearly, because Joe's laughter persisted, crashing against Tolliver's brain as brutally as the sounder.

"You got to tell me if you been bothering Sally."

The hatred and the cunning of the mottled face grew. "Why don't you ask Sally?"

Following this, Joe's actions show that he will be unable to take care of the special and thirty-three. Joe seems to be even too intoxicated to light the signal fuses in accordance with instructions that have just come over the wire. Joe staggers and falls in a stupor. Though it is Tolliver's right to re-turn home, and protect his wife, he knows that in order to get thirty-one and the special by safely, he must stay at the keys.

Suddenly, Joe, who has been simulating the extent of his drunkenness, staggers up and starts down the ladder leading out of the signal tower. As the author tells us:

"Where are you going?" he asked hoarsely.

Joe' laughed happily.

"To keep Sally company while you look after the special and thirty-three."

Tolliver advanced cautiously, watching for a chance. When he spoke his voice had the appealing quality of a child's.

"It's my time off. If I do your work you got to stay at least."

Joe laughed again.

"No. It only needs you to keep all those people from getting killed."

Tolliver sprang then, but Joe avoided the heavier, clumsier man. He grasped a chair, swinging it over his head.

"I'll teach you," he grunted, "to kick me out like dirt. I'll teach you and Sally."

With violent strength, he brought the chair down. Tolliver got his hands up, but the light chair crashed them aside and splintered on his head.. He fell to his knees, reaching out blindly.

"NT. NT. NT."

He struggled to his knees, his hands at his head. "No, by God ! I won't listen to you."

"Thirty-three cleared LR at 12:47."

One tower north ! Thirty-three was coming down on him, but he was only glad that the pounding had ceased. It commenced again.

"NT. NT. NT. Special cleared JV at 12:48." Each rushing towards each other with only a minute's

difference in schedule! That was close—too °close. But

what was it he had in mind?

"NT. NT. NT." "I won't answer."

Tolliver, in his agonized indecision, is still able to know that to keep the passengers of the train safe, it will be necessary to retard the special until thirty-three is on the siding and he can throw the lever that closes the switch and makes the line safe. He wavers. Suddenly his son crawls up the steps of the signal tower on his hands and knees.

He screams for his papa to come' at once, that his mother is in danger, that Joe broke down the door. Let the author tell the climax :

"But mama had the gun," Tolliver said hoarsely. The boy shook his head.

"Mama wouldn't let Sonny play with it. She locked it up in the cupboard. Joe grabbed mama, and she screamed, and said to run and make you come."

In the tower, partially smothered by the storm, vibrated a shrill cry.

From far to the south drifted a fainter sibilation, like an echo of thirty-three's whistle. To the north, a glow increased. The snowflakes there glistened like descending jewels. It was cutting it too close. It was vicious to crush all that responsibility on the shoulders of one ignorant man, such a man as himself, or Joe. What good would it do him to kill Joe now? What was there left for him to do?

He jotted down the thirty-three's orders.

The glow to the north intensified, swung slightly to the left as thirty-three took the siding. But he had to hurry. The special was whistling closer—too close. Thirty-three's locomotive grumbled abreast of him. Something tugged at his coat.

"Papa! Won't you come quick to mama?"

"It's too late now, Sonny," he said to the importunate child.

The tower shook. A hot, white eye flashed by, and a blurred streak of cars. Snow pelted in the window, stinging Tolliver's face. Tolliver closed the window and picked' up thirty-three's orders. If he had kept the revolver here he could have prevented Joe's leaving the tower. Why had Sally locked it in the cupboard? At least it was there now. Tolliver found himself thinking of the revolver as an exhausted man forecasts sleep.

Someone ran swiftly up the stairs. It was the engineer of thirty-three, surprised and impatient.

The engineer departs and hurries down the stairs. The long train, filled with warm, comfortable people, pulls out. Tolliver tries to stop his trembling and to think.

The author concludes as follows:

There was someone else on the stairs now, climbing with an extreme slowness. A bare arm reached through the trap, wavering for a moment uncertainly. Ugly bruises showed on the white flesh. Tolliver managed to reach the trap. He grasped the arm and drew into the light the dark hair and the chalky face of his wife. Her wide eyes stared at him strangely.

"Don't touch me," she whispered. "What am I going to do?"

"Joe?„

She covered her face and shrank against the wall. "I've killed a man—"

Through her fingers she looked at her husband fear-fully. After a time she whispered :

"Why don't you say something?"

His trembling had ceased. His lips were twisted in a grin. He, too, wondered why he didn't say something. Because there were no words for what was in his heart.

He went to the table and commenced to tap vigorously on the key. She ran across and grasped at his arm.

"What you telling them?" she demanded wildly.

"Why, Sally!" he said. "What's the matter with you?— To send another man now Joe is gone."

Truths emerged from his measureless relief, lending themselves to words. He trembled again for a moment.

"If I hadn't stayed ! If I'd let them smash ! When all along it only needed Joe to keep all those people from getting killed."

He sat down, caught her in his arms, drew her to his knee, and held her close.

"You ain't going to scold?" she asked wonderingly.

He shook his head. He couldn't say any more just then; but when his tears touched her face she seemed to understand and to be content.

So, while the boy slept, they waited together for some-one to take Joe's place.

Consider how much less effective this story would have been, had the husband known that the wife really had the revolver handy for ready use, or if he had not introduced the child at a crucial moment calling for help and thereby making the fight with duty even more tremendous.

Later Improvements.—Now it is not always possible to introduce in a story at once all the elements necessary to increase the suspense, heighten the effect of the climax, and make the reader more absorbed. Sometimes hints as to what to introduce and what to leave out will come during the course of the writing itself, although the main structure of the plot should be firmly fixed in your mind before your start is made. Even after the story is completed, the writer, in going over it, will see ways of improving it by introducing greater suspense or by characterizing the principals of the, story in such a fashion as to heighten and strengthen various effects—to make the outcome more problematical—the conflict more intense the conclusion more humorous.

Writing: Beginning And Ending

Why Stories Are Judged by Their Beginning.— Many are the stories upon whose merit a searching ray of illumination can be thrown by the manner in which they are begun, just as we may judge people by the way in which they respond to an introduction. If a woman, when a man is presented to her, does her best to make the other easy in a company of strangers, we may reasonably guess she is kind and thoughtful, while for the effeminate, young, sporty chap who bows in the most approved manner, his face fixed in a meaningless smile, we have only feelings of dislike. We know the latter's manner is merely form and that his politeness is for politeness's sake alone; his greeting is superficial and, for that reason, unimpressive. The person to whom he is introduced very likely will not be greatly pleased to renew the acquaintance.

So it is with stories. It has been noted that many young writers begin their work in a halting, constrained, awkward fashion. This comes from too little practice in writing. It is like riding a bicycle for the first time in a number of years; our balance is rather precarious, our muscles are not flexible.

Striking the Dominant Tone at the Start—It usually is necessary for the amateur to proceed several paragraphs before he strikes a certain tone, then maintains it throughout. To obviate this serious defect, the young author should have decided beforehand just where to commence his narrative. Remember that the beginning is your initial bow to the public, your first strike for fame, and unless you seize the attention right from the start, you will have failed before you fully realize why.

Do Not Keep the Reader Waiting.—A story may be begun expositorily—by giving the main traits of the chief character or characters—by description of place, person or persons, by narrative of action, and by dialogue. Of these methods the purely expository is rather old-fashioned and ineffective. It may, admittedly, be interspersed properly with the other methods of beginning: thus the first paragraph may be a judicious mixture of vitally needed description, narrative, and exposition. Yet, the method of introducing a story in the purely expository manner, especially if it be rather lengthy, is to be avoided. The dominant traits of a certain character will be brought out in the action or dialogue of the story, so why bother to tell about them beforehand?

Making a Strong Beginning.—First impressions are invariably the strongest; consequently, it is up to the tyro to use every method of art at his employment to begin the story attractively. The reader is by no means obliged to read any story—is seduced, so to speak, into doing so; and, unless he can sense an entertaining half-hour within the first two or three paragraphs, then it is all over with the author.

Starting Off With a Strong Situation.—Besides being interesting, compressed, forceful, and suggestive, the introduction must be very much to the point. To come to the heart of matters at once is not so difficult by the use of suggestive action or language. A character may speak two or three lines, which, together with the author's comments, may reveal trait, tendency, purpose, and past existence.

Many writers have seized upon the method of beginning the story in a manner characteristic of the story's mood. This is a very wise and effective device if the opening situation only can be made attractive enough. As usual, Poe opens his story, "A Descent into the Maelstrom," in a manner prophetic of the manifestation of his theme. The manner of the beginning, too, is interesting—our curiosity is aroused—we are impatient to be on with the tale, for the old man's suggestive words of what happened to him leads the reader to believe that he has a bewitching story of the "horror" type to peruse.

"We had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the old man seemed too exhausted to speak.

" `Not long ago,' said he at length, `and I could have guided you on this route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about three years past, there happened to me an event such as never happened to mortal man—or at least such as no man ever survived to tell of—and the six hours of deadly terror which I then endured have broken me up body and soul. You suppose me a very old man—but I am not. It took less than a single day to change these hairs from black to white, to weaken my limbs, and to unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion, and am frightened at a shadow. Do you know I can scarcely look over this little cliff without getting giddy?' "

Beginning Character Stories.—If the story is one of character and is written with a strict adherence to the principles of unity of impression, it will start off with a brief sketch of the main character in some revealing posture. If the tale is one of adventure, at its inception we will perceive the hero about to be involved in some perilous complication, while, if the story is one of setting, the effect of environment on the characters may have a predominant place in the introduction. It is not absolutely essential, of course, that a story of action be opened in characteristic action; it may be started off with a brief character sketch, or description, or some other device.

Beginning With Dialogue.—An excellent method of starting the story is by lively dialogue, in which, through the course of several paragraphs of conversation, we learn of the relations of some of the characters to each other. The following dialogue opens Miss Deland's story, "Many Waters." We learn in a few words the relation of the two men and the attitude both take to the initial complication brought out:

"Well ?"

"True bill ; I'm awfully sorry."

Thomas Fleming took his cigar out of his mouth and contemplated the lighted end. He did not speak. The other man, his lawyer, who had brought him the unwelcome news, began to make the best of it.

"Of course, it's an annoyance; but "

"Well, yes. It's an annoyance," Fleming said, dryly.

Bates chuckled. "It strikes me, Tom, considering the difference between this and the real thing, that `annoyance' is just the right word to use."

Fleming leaned over and knocked off the ashes into his waste basket. He was silent.

"As for Hammond, he won't have a leg to stand on. I don't know what Ellis and Grew meant by letting him take the case before the Grand Jury. He won't have a leg to stand on!"

"Give me a light, will you, Bates? This cigar has gone out again."

Do Not Allow Interest to Lag.—Concerning beginning a story with lively dialogue, a warning must here be sounded. The good story is a ladder, an ascension to the supreme enunciation of the theme. Every act must bring greater complication, more intense interest. Woe betide the author, then, who allows himself to backslide even slightly in the onward march of his story toward its culmination. The amateur may think it clever to start off with catchy, spirited dialogue, expecting thereby to chain the reader's attention to his story. Feeling assured that the show of fireworks at the beginning of his story will insure an attentive audience thence on to the end of the script, he proceeds to explain just what brought the hero or the heroine in such an engaging circumstance. He may even digress so far as to describe the characters, to give all the antecedents, omitting not a single one, that preceded the initial incident.

But the modern reader is wary. He will not need to go very far before he will have sniffed a trap to inveigle him into finishing the story. Sad to relate, the trap rarely works. The reader is only human after all. He dislikes to have his curiosity piqued, then to be plunged into tiring description, exposition, and narration.

How to Dispose of Explanations Interestingly.—The writer must, above all else, follow the upward sequence of interest. After the reader's interest has been aroused, it must not be shattered by spiritless detail. Either the necessary explanations must come prior to the dialogue and the initial crisis, or the conversation must be self-explanatory of what the occasion is, together with the relation of the characters.

This latter is an excellent device. The personages meet, discuss problems paramount to their interests, and, by their talk, disclose their intentions, something of their past life, the circumstances leading up to the story, give a hint of the theme itself, and gradually sift in the important details which otherwise would have to be explained by the author himself. The following, from Henry James Froman's "A Doctor of Cheerfulness," is an excellent example of suggestive dialogue :

"No, Teddy"—and she laid her tremulous hands on his shoulders—"it wouldn't and it couldn't succeed. I would marry you to-morrow if I saw any hope of its coming out right, but I can't, Teddy." Tears glistened in her eyes and her lips quivered pathetically.

Even though she was pronouncing his doom, he adored her balance of emotion and reasonableness, and, secretly, he felt proud that her emotion was on his account.

"Wait one moment, Rosalind." And with a tense nervous movement he laid a protecting hand upon her arm. "Just what is it exactly that is the matter with me? Say the word and I'll change it right now!"

"When you do change it, Teddy dear, I'll marry you"; and she wiped the tears from her eyes. "But I'm afraid you can't do it in a moment, and I can't do it for you. I have heard of men being cured of all kinds of habits," she continued more quietly, turning to the fire; "drinking, smoking, drugs—anything except everlasting gloom and nervous irritation. That must take time, and a man has to do it for himself."

Here in a few words we perceive the relation of the man and the woman who speak, their present mood, the nature of each, and the theme suggested. We know the two are in love, have been some time; that the girl is loving, sympathetic, wise in her lover's moods. We find the man in despair, his dominant mood, and we receive a brief view of his nature, gloomy and irritable, as the girl herself tells him. The story may now proceed more actively; we may then learn in what fashion the man changed his nature. The title, "A Doctor of Cheerfulness," suggests that the girl herself will prove to be the medium of his metamorphosis.

A Combination Method.—But, as has already been said, a number of story openings are a combination of exposition, description, and narration. The hero may be introduced in the first paragraph or two in attitude characteristic or other-wise. A brief description of his physical condition may follow, then the author may give a few of the hero's most interesting traits and accomplishments, ending with pure narrative, made up in large of the hero's actions leading up to the first complication of the story. The following, from Stevenson's "The Sire de Maletroit's Door," is an excellent example of this manner of beginning a story. The story is one of ad-venture and the opening is in mood with the theme.

Denis de Beaulieu was not yet two-and-twenty, but he counted himself a grown man, and a very accomplished cavalier into the bargain. Lads were early formed in that rough warfaring epoch; and when one has been in a pitched battle and a dozen raids, has killed one's man in an honorable fashion and knows a thing or two of strategy and mankind, a certain swagger in the gait is surely to be pardoned. He had put up his horse with due care, and supped with due deliberation; and then, in a very agreeable frame of mind, went out to pay a visit in the gray of the evening. It was not a very wise proceeding on the young man's part. He would have done better to remain beside the fire or go decently to bed. For the town was full of the troops of Burgundy and England under a mixed command; and though Denis was there on safe-conduct, his safe-conduct was like to serve him little on a chance encounter.

It was September, 1429; the weather had fallen sharp; a flighty piping wind, laden with showers, beat about the township; and the dead leaves ran riot along the streets. Here and there a window was already lighted up ; and the noise of men-at-arms, making merry over supper within, came forth in fits and was swallowed up and carried away by the wind. The night fell swiftly; the flag of England, fluttering on the spire tip, grew ever fainter and fainter against the flying clouds—a black speck like a swallow in the tumultuous, leaden chaos of the sky. As the night fell the wind rose, and began to hoot under the archways and roar amid the tree-tops in the valley below the town.

How to End Your Story.—The story should end the moment the theme has been clearly, logically, and entertainingly illustrated—never before, never later. The impression a story leaves upon the reader is determined very largely by the ending; for, if the reader has gotten safely by the beginning, he, by the time the ending approaches, has forgotten the manner of introduction. Only the main salient events of the plot stand out. He is immediately concerned with the final twist of the story.

Disposing of the Characters.—The conclusion, to be impressive, must leave the main characters well disposed of. That is, one of them must not be left hanging over a cliff or in some such hazardous position, while another is abandoned while on the verge of a momentous decision. We must be satisfied with the author's disposition of the characters, while the closing incident must be of such a nature that the theme stands forth in the mind, clearly outlined, nicely illuminated.

Do Not Moralize.—The conclusion of the story should never be utilized by the author as a means of moralizing on the story's characters or humanity in general. The author should not conclude by saying that "the wages of sin is death," and that that was the lot which came to the villain, continuing by observing that such a lot will come to all mankind unless it reforms immediately. The ending of the story should be as severely bare of all personalities by the author as any other portion of the story. The ending should deal only with the final demonstration of the theme or the working out of the climax; it should terminate the story pointedly. After the climax, the reader's suspense and curiosity pales rapidly; hence the necessity of narrating with expediteness the few events which deposit all the elements of the story in their natural positions.

Identifying the Ending With the Climax.—In a large number of stories, particularly those of O. Henry and Edgar Allan Poe, as well as a multitude of present-day writers, the conclusion is identical with the climax. This is particularly the case when the story is one of character alone, when the main personage makes some great decision which bears out the theme : such as a man who, under great stress of emotion and circumstance, finally decides that duty to his country is greater than his love of self-preservation and his desire for the beautiful prospects that life holds out for him. The man's decision is at once the climax and the ending; for, after he has made the decision, we know well what his future course will be.

Or, again, in the story of incident, the hero is straining every ounce of energy to reach a certain place before a catastrophe occurs involving some one dear to him. The climax and the ending very well might be the saving of the life or the rescue from the dangerous position of the other main character involved. Poe's story, "The Pit and Pendulum," is a production of this kind, in which the climax coincides with the conclusion.

I struggled no more, but the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long, and final scream of despair. I felt that I tottered upon the brink—I averted my eyes

There was a discordant hum of human voices! There was a loud blast as of many trumpets! There was a harsh grating as of a thousand thunders ! The fiery walls rushed back! An outstretched hand caught my own as I fell fainting into the abyss. It was that of General Lasselle. The French army had entered Toledo. The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies.

Taking Care to Conclude Properly.—If for no other reason than that of impressing the editor alone, the story ending should have just as critical and painstaking preparation as the introduction or the climax. Remember that the editor is purchasing the story for the edification and delight of his readers, and that which fails to impress him, he will argue, should never reach the eyes of his readers. Consequently, the young author should ceaselessly contrive to end his story as simply, as intensively, as suggestively, and as rapidly as possible immediately after the main event of the story has occurred.

Knowing Beforehand How the Story Will End.—It is necessary that the writer have the manner of ending his story well in mind even before he starts it. If he fails to give the introduction, the body, the climax, and the conclusion of his story due regard, and fails to balance them nicely before setting pen to paper, his end is very likely to simmer out miserably. Usually, the young author takes to his writing flush with intense enthusiasm ; his characters go along finely at the start. But, unless he is capable of sustained effort, he will tire toward the end, and the importance of ending, with just as much dash and care will not seem of sufficient importance.

This tendency is especially prevalent with the amateur be-cause he has not yet learned that story writing is not a thing of inspiration and enthusiasm alone. It is a matter of persistent work, often very arduous and tiring, both mentally and bodily. Hence, the vital need of mapping out beforehand the relative position and the quantitative importance to be held by each detail.

We present, as an excellent example of story ending, the conclusion of O. Henry's story, "The Buyer From Cactus City." The hero, a wealthy Westerner, has come to the Big City to purchase for his department store goods from Zizzbaum & Son. He meets, while going over the latest styles, the store's beautiful, though sophisticated, model. He falls in love with her, frankly and outspokenly. Zizzbaum, with an eye to business, commands the model to show the Westerner an entertaining evening about the city. The model, calmly aware of her part, agrees.

The two are out that evening. While in a cabaret, the Westerner declares his love, casually stating that he is going to take the girl back as his wife, buy her a beautiful home, automobile, and so on. The girl disgustedly replies that she has "heard that before." She informs him that he is the usual heartless, sordid type, and that she is out with him only to jolly him along and get him to buy heavily from Zizzbaum & Son. She must play this role or lose her job. Then the persistent and outspoken Westerner produces a gorgeous diamond ring. The girl repulses him. The two go home, and, at parting, the girl strikes her escort in the face. As he steps back, a ring falls from somewhere. Let O. Henry tell the rest:

Platt groped for it and found it.

"Now, take your useless diamond and go, Mr. Buyer," she said.

"This was the other one—the wedding ring," said the Texan, holding the smooth gold band on the palm of his hand.

Miss Asher's eyes blazed upon him in the half darkness. "Was that what you meant ?—did you"

Somebody opened the door from inside the house.

"Good night," said Platt. "I'll see you at the store to-morrow."

Miss Asher ran up to her room and shook the school teacher until she sat up in bed to scream "Fire!" "Where is it?" she cried.

"That's what I want to know," said the model. You've studied geography, Emma, and you ought to know. Where is a town called Cac—Cac—Carac—Caracas City, I think they called it?"

"How dare you wake me up for that?" said the school teacher. "Caracas is in Venezuela, of course."

"What's it like?"

"Why, it's principally earthquakes and negroes and monkeys and malarial fever and volcanoes."

"I don't care," said Miss Asher blithely ; "I'm going there to-morrow."

Tragical and Happy Endings.—The editor reasons that his magazine is primarily a means of amusement and entertainment; there is no more reason why the amusement afforded by his magazine should result unhappily for all concerned than that other pleasures, such as skating or dancing, should end disastrously, with a drowning or a broken leg.

Editors must buy stories with happy endings because the people desire them almost exclusively. There is an instinct inherent in all of us which strives to realize only the healthy, the beautiful, and cheerfully wholesome in life. The tragical ending is permissible only on rare occasions, only when some wrong must be righted or some great theme impressed upon the laggard brain.

Writing: Dialogue

What Good Dialogue Must Do.-- Good dialogue must be convincing in quality, must portray exactly and suggestively the character from whom the speech comes. The reader will be as quick to observe falsity of speech as he is in natural life when a person with little or no education attempts to use words of whose exact meaning he is in doubt.

Characters Must Clearly Identify Themselves.—Just as the characters are easily differentiated from each other, so must the talk of each major individual be readily distinguish-able from the speech of all other characters, so different, in fact, that we may be able to identify by the speeches alone the characters to whom they belong. This does not mean, of course, that each character should carry continually with him a set manner of speech. As Arlowe Bates observes, the use of "quotation marks does not convert a passage into dialogue." There are occasions under which even a quiet individual may break into a frenzy of rage. Again, an individual backward and halting in speech may, in an emergency, rise to the severe exigencies of the situation and show that his slowness to speech is acquired and not innate. Yet, no matter under what emotion the character may come, his speech must remain consistent with his nature in its larger aspects. No matter what a character may say, we, in reading his speeches, must be able to observe that it is entirely possible from what we know and understand of the man.

Dialogue as Depicting the Character's Mood.—Dialogue should portray a character's mood. At many points in emotional stories, made up of several minor and one major crises, the characters constantly will be under the influence of stirring feelings which they must explain. It is the author's part to translate these emotions in an understandable manner and, through their enunciation, bring out the character's personality.

Dialogue Must Concern Itself Strictly With Development of Story.—In a short story, the dialogue should never be allowed to digress from the development of the plot, as it does in many of the early nineteenth century novels, especially those of Dickens. When characters are allowed to tell personal experiences and to chirp on in a manner which brings out their humorous characteristics, they are not helping along the story. Every bit of dialogue in the short story should be absolutely indispensable, so that, if any be left out, the sense of the story will be spoiled. The use of dialogue is to further, to push on, the action of the plot. The story moves by the emotions and thoughts of the characters; and, as dialogue portrays both thought and emotion, the story progresses rapidly by the correct use of dialogue.

Each speech should contain the hint of that which is to follow. The story dialogue may be so suggestive as to tell in a few words the relations of the characters, what brought them together, and what of importance has happened.

Purpose of Dialogue.—It should be remembered, first and all the time, that dialogue is employed to make a story attractive. Life is made up of conversation among persons. Those persons would hardly be satisfied to exchange greetings by letter. Man is a social member—he progresses by contact with other men. Hence, the liking for dialogue in stories finds its origin in human nature itself. Nothing is more invigorating and entertaining than living, characteristic, and pregnant dialogue. As Professor Genung has excellently stated :

If in the characters is involved the profounder fibre of the story, from the management of the dialogue comes largely its more buoyant and popular effect. Uncritical Examples of Dialogue.—We are appending three examples of dialogue, the first from "A Sisterly Scheme," by H. C. Bunner. The second example is from Kipling's "Mulvaney" series, and is given to show how far one may go in giving dialect. The last one, from 0. Henry, shows that slang may be free from all vulgarity and still be replete with humor.

"Your sister," replied the young man with dignity, "was to have gone fishing with me; but she remembered at the last moment that she had a prior engagement with Mr. Brown."

"She hadn't," said the girl. "I heard them make it up last evening, after you went upstairs."

The young man clean forgot himself.

"She's the most heartless coquette in the world!" he cried, and clinched his hands.

"She is all that," said the young person on the string-piece of the dock, "and more, too. And yet, I suppose, you want her all the same?"

"I'm afraid I do," said the young man, miserably.

"Well," said the girl, putting her shoe on again, and beginning to tie it up, "I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Morpeth. You've been hanging around Pauline for a year, and you are the only one of the men she keeps on a string who hasn't snubbed me. Now, if you want me to, I'll give you a lift."

"A—a—what ?"

"A lift. You're wasting your time. Pauline has no use for devotion. It's a drug in the market with her—has been for five seasons. There's only one way to get her worked up. Two fellows tried it, and they nearly got there; but they weren't game enough to stay to the bitter end. I think you're game, and I'll tell you. You've got to make her jealous."

"Make her jealous of me?"

"No!" said his friend, with infinite scorn; "make her jealous of the other girl. Oh! but you men are stupid!"

"Well, Flossy," he began, and then he became conscious of a sudden change in the atmosphere, and perceived that the young lady was regarding him with a look that might have chilled his soul.

"Miss Flossy—Miss Belton—" he hastily corrected him-self. Winter promptly changed to Summer in Miss Flossy Belton's expressive face.

"Your scheme," he went on, "is a good one. Only—it involves the discovery of another girl."

"Yes," assented Miss Flossy, cheerfully.

"Well," said the young man, "doesn't it strike you that if I were to develop a sudden admiration for any one of those other young ladies whose charms I have hitherto neglected, it would come tardy off—lack artistic verisimilitude, so to speak?"

"Rather," was Miss Flossy's prompt and frank response; "especially as there isn't one of them fit to flirt with."

"Well, then, where am I to discover the girl?"

Miss Flossy untied and retied her shoe. Then she said calmly :

"What's the matter with—" a hardly perceptible hesitation—"me?"

"Eyah ! That was great times. I'm old now ; me hide's wore off in patches; sinthrygo has disconcerted me, an' I'm a married man too. But I've had my day, an nothin' can take away the taste av that ! Oh my time past, whin I put me foot through ivry livin' wan av the Tin Commandmints between Revelly and Lights Out, blew the froth off a pewter, wiped me moustache wid the back av me hand, an' slept on it all as quiet as a little child ! But it's over—it's over, an' 'twill niver come back to me; not though I prayed for a week av Sundays. Was there any wan in the Ould Rig'mint to touch Corp'ril Terence Mulvaney whin that same was turned out for sedukshin? I niver met him. Ivry woman that was not a witch was worth the runnin' afther in those days, an' ivry man was my dearest f rind or—I had stripped to him an' we knew which was the better av the tu."

"Cheese it," said the captain harshly. "I'm not hogging it yet. It's all on the outside. I went around on Essex and proposed marriage to that Catrina that's got the fruit shop there. Now, that business could be built up. She's a peach as far as a Dago could be. I thought I had that senoreena mashed sure last week. But look what she done to me! I guess I got too fresh. Well, there's another scheme queered."

"You don't mean to say," said Murray, with infinite contempt, "that you would have married that woman to help yourself out of your disgraceful troubles!"

"Me," said the captain. "I'd marry the Empress of China for one bowl of chop suey. I'd commit murder for a plate of beef stew. I'd steal a wafer from a waif. I'd be a Mormon for a bowl of chowder."

"I think," said Murray, resting his head on his hands. "that I would play Judas for the price of one drink of whiskey. For thirty pieces of silver I would "

"Oh, come now!" exclaimed the captain in dismay. "You wouldn't do that, Murray? I always thought that Kike's squeal on his boss was about the lowest-down play that ever happened. A man that gives his friend away is worse than a pirate."

Writing: Setting

Elements of Setting.— Setting in a story is the time, place, and conditions under which the action of the story occurs. Setting bears the same relation to the story that the sound drum bears to the Phonograph. In both cases, the lack of the developing feature of setting and sound drum will detract greatly from the final impression of the story and the music.

Relation of Setting to the Drama.—Dramas originally were given practically with no setting whatsoever. The old morality plays were very crude affairs indeed with regard to scenic effects and costuming of the actors. The spectator required a very sympathetic and enthusiastic nature to accept the plays as they were presented. In our modern dramas and musical comedies, however, everything is changed. The stage managers of the various companies vie with each other in setting their plays in veritable dreams of splendor. The characters are gowned as prince and princess born to the purple, while all settings of whatever kind are drawn with an eye to a certain effect. The settings are planned, above all else, to be always in tone with the theme of the story as well as the tone of each particular situation.

Setting Largely Contributory.—Through the proper use of setting, the short story and drama have been developed to the present distinguished standards. Some stories require only enough setting to give stability and to assist in the ultimate unity of impression desired. This is the case in stories based on character or incident. In such stories the setting must not interfere with the characters or the situations in which they become involved; and, even though a story be one of setting, the writer should be very careful that he does not introduce setting for setting's sake alone, but has rather a definite predetermined object in view in every place and condition described; otherwise, his story will lag and become wearisome.

Setting in a story should be given, in so far as possible, suggestively. Thus, the writer may say that the countenances of those present were blanched to a deadly white by the spectre which met their eyes.

Making Readers See Your Setting.—The more lifelike and concrete a setting can be made the more believable and credible will be the resulting story. The tales of old usually began with "Once upon a time." They might have occurred anywhere and at any time. This is perhaps one of the main reasons why such stories have an air of utter improbability. We do not know where they occurred. We have no idea of location. We are in a quandary as to under what conditions the action took place. Either through direct narrative, description, or by the speech of his characters, the writer should give definitely the setting of his story. In the following paragraph, the initial one in O. Henry's "The Whirligig of Life," the author thus briefly summarizes the setting:

"Justice of the Peace, Renaja Weddup, sat in the door of his office. Halfway of the zenith the Cumberland range rose blue-gray in the afternoon haze. A speckled hen swaggered down the main street of the `settlement,' cackling foolishly."

Emotion in the Setting.—Man is acted upon by the nature of his surroundings. Think to yourself of the effect that certain localities, through the passage of years, have grown to hold upon you. The sight of a certain far-away range of mountains will call up certain trains of thought. Certain impulses may suddenly spring up at the smell of a flower or the sound of a chime ringing. The impulses thus precipitated may influence radically the events of your life for a long time afterward.

Suppose, for instance, that you had lived for years in a certain hilly country—your home nestled in a pretty little valley which you had grown to love and regard as part of your very being. To continue with the hypothesis, you had always lived among friends who were congenial, sympathetic, and who understood your moods. Consider your feelings, then, if, by force of circumstances, you were suddenly snatched away from your sleepy litttle town among the hills and were drawn into the roaring maw of a huge city, where you saw no loving face, met no friend to speak a cheering word. Do you not think such a new life might have radical bearing on your thoughts and actions? Might you not in moments of desperation do things foreign to your past self?

This goes to show the effect environment has on the individual. How strong a hold it has gained upon an individual may be determined largely by the manner in which his nature reacts to environment. The nature of one's surroundings has a direct bearing, too, upon one's own feelings. When Old Sol smiles, man is very apt to do likewise. When gloom and chill settle over the earth, people are very apt to reflect nature's new tone.

Emotional Contrast in Setting—Certain settings are often used as a means of bringing out by contrast an opposite feeling or condition in the character. Thus, a character may be under strain of poignant grief. He may be drinking the dregs of utter despondency. To emphasize this character's feelings, the writer may describe the landscape and nature's various manifestations as being peaceful and tranquil. The same holds true for the opposite. Man may be happy and content, while all around him the elements roar forth their anger.

Setting as Determining the Incidents.—Setting includes all the elements of a person's environment, all the elements of nature, of social and occupational life, business, professional, and so forth. Hence, according as a person's relation to a certain condition of setting is accentuated, so is the story determined by the setting. If I am employed in, say, a telegraph office, my actions, the people whom I meet, the doings of the day, the thoughts that come to me, are largely predetermined by the very limitations of the occupation in which I am engaged.

Stevenson says regarding the influence of setting on incident:

There are, so far as I know, three ways, and three ways only, of writing a story. You may take a plot, and fit characters to it, or you may take a character and choose incidents and situations to develop it, or lastly you may take a certain atmosphere and get action and persons to express and realize it. I'll give you an example in "The Merry Men." There I began with the feeling of one of those islands on the west coast of Scotland, and I gradually developed the story to express the sentiment with which the coast affected me.

One thing in life calls for another; there 4 a fitness in events and places. The sight of a pleasant arbor puts it in our minds to sit in it. One place suggests work, another idleness, a third early rising and rambles in the dew. The effect of night, of any flowing water, of the peep of day, of ships, of the open ocean, calls up in the mind an army of anonymous desires and pleasures. Something we feel should happen we know not what, yet we proceed in quest of it. And many of the happiest hours of life fleet by us in the vain attendance on the genius of the place and moment. It is thus that tracts of young fir, and low rocks that reach into deep soundings, particularly torture and delight me. Something must have happened in such places, and perhaps, ages back, to members of my race; and when I was a child I tried in vain to invent appropriate games for them, as I still try, just as vainly, to fit them with the proper story. Some places speak distinctly. Certain dark gardens cry aloud for murder; certain old houses demand to be haunted; certain coasts are set apart for shipwreck. Other spots again seem to abide their destiny, suggestive and impenetrable.

Influence of Setting on Character.—Man, as has already been announced, is a creature of his environment. His outlook on life very likely will be colored by the setting in which he is placed. Zola, the French novelist, for instance, was reprimanded by Brunetière, a French critic, for describing one of his characters as moved by the various colors mirrored in a pool of water before his house. The critic did not think is was lifelike to have a man influenced by such a trivial circumstance, but Zola and his contemporaries were more acute analyzers of the effect setting has on character.

The business in which we are engaged, the places we visit, the things we have, all are extremely vital in determining our course of action in life. Change one and you vary the individual for a day; change them all and your personage will experience an entirely different outlook upon life. For instance, if a man is a minister, he may, by mere nature of his occupation and by no sense of morality inherent in him, be expected to act differently under certain circumstances than would a person of some other profession placed under like conditions.

The Part the Weather Plays in a Story. The writer will recall what a vast number of stories of adventure or incident have been founded on some phase of weather—upon a thunder-shower—a cyclone—a snow-storm of the Dakota type —a sand-storm of the desert. A typical instance of this sort is Conrad's story of the sea, "The Typhoon." If the writer has sufficient command of words to portray the sounds of the elements in distress, he has at his beck and call a very effective means of entertainment. Stories of storms or of weather contain unlimited possibilities.

Local Color.—Artists especially noted for the distinct tincture of local color that their stories contain are: Bret Harte and Hamlin Garland, whose stories portray the life and manners of the West and Middle West; Cable, whose stories are of the intimate southland; Mary Wilkins Freeman, whose characters portray the tone and atmosphere of quaint New England life, and so on. The stories of these and other writers are distinguished because of the local color which they introduce into their stories. They give the tone, the atmosphere, the concentrated meaning of the locality of which they write. Their stories portray effectively and unmistakably the domestic tones and distinguishing features of these localities. All details of setting are selected in such a manner as to bring out the spirit and the pervading atmosphere of the place, while all details which do not assist in the unity of impression are rigidly suppressed.

Writing: Style

Style a Reflection of Self. — As the French academician observed, "Style is the Man." Style in writing is just as true a portrayal of what a man is—how his texture of thought is woven together—as are the actions of his life. Style is a particular method of writing and no two men are gifted with the same method, just as not two people are alike. Style is a garb of many colors, a thing of many constituents. Stories may be told in a multitude of styles. Thus, a story's style may be elegant, awkward, smooth, dull, involved, ornate, poetical, simple, melodious, and so forth, all depending on the individual who impresses on it the inevitable stamp of personality. Style is like a mirror—it reflects exactly the peculiarities of each detail of its master. If a man be nervous temperamentally his style is sure to reflect those characteristics, and very likely will be choppy and erratic. A writer of nervous temperament, too, is-quite likely to have a versatile style, one possessing many different qualities.

But it is not necessary to go into a technical discussion of styles. Such a discussion belongs to the realm of rhetoric. It will be necessary only to sketch lightly the main and salient features of style, for it is true that the better the style of the story, the more pleasure will it give to the reader.

Style in Stories of To-day.—Yet, it is the truth that present-day stories have very little, if any, literary style. Out of the hundreds of stories that appear monthly in all our vast number of periodicals, but few can be said to possess a good style. Compare any of the stories which you may read in current magazines with some of the stories of Henry Van Dyke, the master dictionist, whose style is as limpid and smooth-flowing as the water in a sand-bottomed brook. But perhaps just because of the fact that so many accepted stories lack good style, the writer will decide not to bother greatly over style. The writer may determine that question for him-self. If he does not care to develop a distinctive and beautiful style, it may not much matter in the long run. Still, all stories must be told clearly, simply, and smoothly. The words of the story must be such as to bring forth mental images to the mind of the reader. Only so far as it is necessary to accomplish these things must the writer study style. The supreme duty of every story writer is to make himself understood absolutely. To write in such a manner that not one bit of doubt arises in the reader's mind as to what the author means, is a great task as well as a great duty.

In real life O. Henry was a quietly humorous and observing individual, bubbling over with good-fellowship and taking a great joy in recording the characteristic oddities of people. The following extract from one of his stories will reveal his humorous outlook on life. It is a fine example of the statement, "Style is the Man."

"A trust is its weakest point," said Jeff Peters.

"That," said I, "sounds like one of those unintelligible remarks such as, `Why is a policeman' ?"

"It is not," said Jeff. "There are no relations between a trust and a policeman. My remark was an epigram—an axis—a kind of mulct'em in parvo. What it means is that a trust is like an egg. If you want to break an egg you have to do it from the outside. The only way to break up a trust is from the inside. Keep sitting on it until it hatches. Look at the brood of young colleges and libraries that's chirping and peeping all over the country. Yes, sir, every trust bears in its own bosom the seeds of its destruction like a rooster that crows near a Georgia colored Methodist camp meeting, or a Republican announcing himself a candidate for governor of Texas."

Studying the Masters of Style.—To be certain regarding the qualities of pure, distinctive style the writer might make a study of the diction of several of the master writers, such as, Dickens, Stevenson, Addison, Kipling, Poe, Hawthorne, Conrad, and so forth, comparing their style with his and ending up by striving to imitate their peculiarities of writing. In this way he may be assisted in his choice of words. Of a like method of self-improvement Stevenson says:

"Whenever I read a book or a page that particularly pleased me in which a thing was said or effect rendered with propriety, in which there was either some conspicuous force or some happy distinction in the style I must sit down at once to ape that quality. I was unsuccessful, and I knew it; and tried again, and was again unsuccessful, and always unsuccessful; but at least in these vain bouts I got some practice in rhythm, in harmony, in construction and co-ordination of parts.

"I have thus played the sedulous ape to Hazlitt, to Lamb, to Wadsworth, to Sir Thomas Browne, to Defoe, to Hawthorne, to Montaigne.

"That, like it or not, is the way to learn to write, whether I have profited or not, that is the way. It was the way Keats learned, and there never was a finer temperament for literature than Keats."

Style Should Suit the Type of Story.-Style varies according to the type of story to be written. Thus, in a story of swift, continuous action, the style should consist of short, forceful sentences. All ornamentation, figures of speech, and the like, should be eliminated. If the story is one of mystery or tragedy, the style should lean to the choice of words in which the feeling of fear or horror is aroused. Thus, in Poe's story, "The Fall of the House of Usher," his sentence structure and his choice of words are such that sensations of mystery and apprehension are produced, which sensations come not entirely from the fact that the story deals with elements of the supernatural. Again, in Poe's story "Ligeia," the style or choice of words plays a prominent part in bringing out tones of melancholy.

The Three Qualities of Style : 1. Clearness: To arouse emotion in the reader, the style must appeal clearly to particular senses, tastes, passions, and so on, for a clear appeal to any one of our five senses invariably arouses some emotion. In clearness of style are included clearness of thought and clearness of expression. We must think a thing clearly before we can express it well. To be intelligible the writer's every sentence must contain ideas clearly and logically related to each other.

As an important assistance to clearness, adverbs, adjectives, and pronouns should be placed carefully to modify the words and antecedents to which they are most vitally related.

2. Force.—When a writer wishes to be impressive, to be emphatic, to arouse emotion, and to stress sensational situations, he employs a forceful style. As Professor Genung observes:

"As related to the writer himself, force in style is the result and evidence of some strong emotion at work infusing vigor into his words. He realizes vividly the truth of what he says and so it becomes intense and fervid; he has a deep conviction of its importance, and so it becomes cogent and impressive. Along with this fervor of feeling his will is enlisted ; he is determined, as it were, to make his reader think as he does and to make his cause prevail. Every employment of word and figure is tributary to this. Geniune force in style cannot be manufactured; if the style has not serious conviction to back it, it becomes contorted ; if it has no vivifying emotion, it becomes turgid. Force is the quality of style most dependent on character."

To impart force the writer should use only those words which indicate strength, which imply bigness or swiftness of movement. He should eliminate carefully all merely superficial adjectives and adverbs. Force in the sentence is inherent in the sentence's arrangement. To employ a maximum of force, the main idea in a sentence should be arranged culminatingly so that it comes with emphasis at the end of the sentence.

3. Beauty.—Beauty means making the story a thing of delight to the ear, mind, sense of proportion, and so on. It means the elimination of all harsh words and combinations of words. The use of melodious words, of alliterative words, of suggestive words, such as, "murmuring" and "clash," having a strong resemblance in sound to the idea they express, are practices which lend to the beautification of a work. Lastly in the element of beauty comes the use of figures of speech, such as simile, metaphor, personification, etc.

Writing: Unities Of Time, Place, And Action

Unity of Time.— Ordinarily, the plot of a short story is based on a sequence of events culminating in a simple crisis in the life of one person. A novel might deal with several such crises in the life of one individual, for very few persons pass through only one; or the novel may be so involved as to encompass the crises in the lives of several personages. The purpose of the short story, however, is to reproduce a single and critical phase in the life of a solitary character. This crisis may be treated in detail, or otherwise, according to how many words the story is to contain.

It is absolutely necessary that the short story be limited in its reproduction of life else it will not leave an unified impression ; no particular theme will be brought out with a definiteness of outline, for it would be impossible to choose haphazardly from the chaotic welter of life a series of incidents leading consistently to the intelligible illustration of some truth. No lesson could be learned from it—no theme elaborated. Hence, the short story must embrace not only a sequence of events, but these events must be closely bound together by unity of time.

We remember best those things that happen one after the other in point of time. We receive thusly a continuous picture, for the events that occur are all intimately akin—they have a singleness of purpose and imprint their meaning firmly upon the memory. And, when the various events composing a story follow each other closely in point of time, the illusion is more real, for all life is a constantly flowing stream of action and incident.

It is not necessary to show the hero in his early boyhood —to reveal how, while yet a young boy, he was fascinated by the girl he eventually marries. Nor is it necessary to draw out a courtship through all the mazes of the wooing, proposal, preparations for marriage, and honeymoon. The story should commence where the first incident of themic significance begins and where the crisis of the main character—the crisis chosen for the story—is inaugurated. We are not interested in knowing about all the past events which have contributed to making up a person's character. But we are curious to know what his present character is; we may even desire a few summary hints as to what events contributed to his present situation and and outlook on life, such as: "Channing had not accepted the rebuffs of life philosophically; they had left him suspicious, sarcastic, cynical."

The author should choose those subjects which can be handled without .the introduction of great lapses of time, years in length, and recurring at frequent intervals. The proper length of time for the characters to act out the story's action ordinarily is not more than one or two years, but very many of them do not consume more than a day or two, or even an hour. The greater the compression of time in the story, the stronger will be the impression of unity left with the reader.

In some stories, on the other hand, the passage of many years and the emphasis of time are the very things from which the story draws its effectiveness. In De Maupassant's story, "The Necklace," the mere mention of the ten years and all they signify to the main characters is appalling indeed. It is from this relatively great length of time in the life of the two characters that the story derives its significance. In stories dealing with, or stressing, the passage of numbers of years, the beginner has but a poor chance of dealing adequately with the subject chosen. Stories of this character usually are stories of purpose or of idea.

An Example.—Such a one is Björnstjerne Björnson's,

"The Father." The story relates, in graphic simplicity and nakedness of decorative qualities, the self-centered love of the father for his son. We introduce extracts showing the passage of time.

"The man whose story is here to be told was the wealthiest and most influential person in his parish ; his name was Thord Overaas. He appeared in the priest's study one day, tall and earnest.

" `I have got a son,' said he, `and I wish to present him for baptism.'

"One day sixteen years later, Thord stood once more in the priest's study.

" `I have come this evening about that son of mine who is to be confirmed tomorrow.'

"Eight years more rolled by and then one day a noise was heard outside of the priest's study, for many men were approaching, and at their head was Thord, who entered first.

`I am here to request that the banns may be published for my son : he is about to marry Karen Storliden, daughter of Gudmund, who stands here beside me.'

"A fortnight later, the father and son were rowing across the lake.

"The Son threw out his arms, uttered a shriek and fell overboard.

For three days and three nights people saw the father rowing round and round the spot, without taking either food or sleep.

"It must have been a year from that day."

Unity of Place.—The average reader finds it far easier to comprehend the lapse of one or several years between the time required to take up the thread of the story where it was dropped than to imagine a change of scene. Thus, after the writer has mentioned that ten years have passed, it is not necessary then that the story be resumed in different scenes : rather it should be resumed in surroundings similar to those in which it was broken off,

To accept a change of scene requires a great mental exercise, If all changes of scene in a story demanding several shifts in locality are important, then it will be necessary to sketch them with some clarity. The reader is thus forced to a great mental strain in order to assimilate all the details of the varied scenes—his interest becomes diffused—he becomes conscious of himself—his concentration is scattered—his tale of amusement has become an exercise of memory.

The wise author, then, will let his characters act within the smallest possible area consistent with a fitting elaboration of his theme. This may be one or two places or more, but preferably as few as possible. Of course there are some scenes in which very important events occur, and in which the elements of setting have a peculiar effect on the actions of the characters. Such a locality must be sketched in with some detail and care. But, once the reader has mastered this scene, he should not be hurried on to another which is described with just as much particularity. If such is the case, the story will contain far too much description. Consequently, the very best method the author can employ in imparting unity of place to his works is to describe with some definiteness only the one or two main settings of his story and bring the characters back to these settings as often as possible. At each return to one of these main scenes it will be necessary only to mention the setting. The reader will already have formed a mental picture of the place.

The writer must ever bear in mind that the reader desires to become indentified with the characters of the story; therefore, the constant intrusion of the writer who forces the reader to tear his attention from the consuming interest of the action of the story to the mere setting in which the various incidents take place, is aggravating in the extreme.

Let there be only a very few scenes sketched in detail. It will be sufficient to leave the other changes to the imagination of the reader himself by leaving the details of the background indefinite. If the hero goes to church, merely mention the church ; the reader has his own type of church in mind, and it would be merely a distraction for the reader, to tell of what materials the church is composed. And, if no important event occurs in the heroine's home, it is again of no particular advantage to describe the various trappings that compose the living room.

Most people greatly enjoy travel; they like to visit foreign countries. They love to wonder at the beauty of far-off climes, to hear new sounds and smell strange, entrancing per-fumes. But novelty of change comes easily through the eye, which immediately registers a picture on the brain with little effort. To visualize a change of scene, however, is a much different matter; for the ordinary individual, it requires a distinct effort. The author, then, may easily imagine what pleasure a person might extract from a tale constantly interspersed with detailed descriptions of place and condition. So let the author decide to fasten upon two or three main localities to carry on his story. Let the reader know those particular places well and even learn to love them ; but let the writer merely mention all other changes of scenes very sparingly. For example, "The forest, "On the way home," "He took dinner at the Inn," and "They toiled up the mountain."

Unity of Action.—A story, to possess unity of action, must be concerned only with one main crisis of a character's life; therefore, it obviously is not within the ability of the short story to delineate the slow development of a character and to give the numerous incidents which ordinarily influence him. The slow development or gradual degeneration of character requires the larger scope of the novel for adequate treatment. Hence, the writer should avoid portraying the deliberate growth of character, or a change in character requiring the passage of years and the influence of innumerable incidents to bring it about clearly and satisfactorily.

Simplicity of All Materials Essential.—To insure unity of action, be sure to exclude all incidents which do not directly contribute to the approach and accomplishment of the main crisis. This includes the extinction of all sub-plots and extraneous characters, as well as all bits of setting and characterizations not having the realization of the theme constantly in view. Do not think to heighten the suspense or draw out the interest by introducing little side-shows. They inevitably detract from the main issue of the plot; the story ends without having imparted a single impression; the theme of the plot misfires, and the reader receives no single or dominant view of life. The secret of success in the short story, then, is simplicity rather than complication and involved artfulness—simplicity in the number of characters, in the emotions which the characters experience, in change of scene, number of incidents, course of time, and so on.

By some strange and inexplainable twist of fate, people in general have been led to believe that the way of the story teller is very devious indeed; that he deals in strange concoctions of endless constituents. It is true that the elements with which he deals are many—for his realm is that of Life, the world—but his subject for each single story is only a very infinitesimal atom of existence, handled to bring out some phase of life helpfully, interestingly, and intelligibly.

Writing: Unity Of Impression

The Distinctiveness of Your Story.— Unity of impression presupposes unity of conception, deep sympathy with the story and its characters, and the maintenance of a general tone throughout. A story may progress logically, swiftly, and clearly from the preliminary situation right through to the conclusion, without halt or hesitation; it may be a model of well-balanced short-story structure; it may be a delight for the contemplation of a critical analyzer, yet fall short of conviction.

In other words, there is a higher law in story writing than that of mere mathematics; there is a loftier aim than a strict adherence to certain rules regarding the order of events, plot construction, characters, title, and so on. That final test of the artist in short-story writing deals with unity of impression, of imparting a certain distinctive tone or spirit to the story, according to the purpose of the author and the emotion pre-dominant in the story. Unity of impression gives a story character, imparts to it a certain individuality that should cling to the memory of the reader long after he has absorbed the story's last word.

Some people have distinguishable talents or traits which particularly endear them to us. One man may be very engaging of manner, while another person may be the personification of hospitality. Those traits stand out above all others in those particular individuals.

The Story's Dominant Tone.—So it is with stories, based, as they may be, on a thousand different variations of emotions, characters, incidents, tones, colors, ideas, philosophies —illimitable. Each story, based upon some special emotion or idea, should be permeated with that emotion throughout; that emotion should stand out strongly through every major and even minor event of the plot. It implies unity of mood throughout the story, unity of mood at the start, in the middle, and right up to the final reckoning.

Author Must Have the Tone of His Story Constantly Before Him.—It is necessary above all else that, in securing unity of impression, the author have the dominant tone of his story ever before him, so that every event and every situation be touched with it, that every word set down be an indispensable link in the chain reaching from causation to effect. Of this effect of unity of impression to be brought out in the manuscript, Robert Louis Stevenson says :

"A skillful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents; but having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he then combines such events as may best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect. If his initial sentence tend not to an out-bringing of this effect, then he has failed in his first step. In the whole composition there should be no word written to which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one preestablished design."

The author should go over in his mind each incident of his story before setting it to paper in order to determine whether it is impregnated with the spirit of a certain mood. If not, then he must ruthlessly cast it aside; it certainly will not aid in securing unity of impression ; for, to bring about this desired effect, every event must be inevitable to the clear working out of the plot and must be in mood with the rest of the plot-fabric.

An Example of Harmony.—A master in the device of securing incomparable impressionistic qualities was Poe. In his story, "The Masque of the Red Death," all bits of the setting, and even seemingly insignificant fragments of the story have been considered for their harmony of mood. The mood is one of mystery and tragedy which comes to a band of thoughtless revellers. The tone of the story is brought more sharply in contrast by the gayety of the party. Poe strikes the tone of death and tragedy in the very first sentence of the story. I will give passages from the story to illustrate how well Poe has the mood in hand and what materials he utilizes to bring it to the reader impressively.

The "Red Death" had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution.

But in the western or black chamber the effects of the firelight that streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes were ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.

It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound ; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation.

The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrunity much have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death.

And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flame of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.

In Poe's story, "The Fall of the House of Usher," the unity of impression is wrought out in like manner. Every element of setting is permeated with the inextinguishable and gripping breath of the supernatural; from beginning to end the whole story fairly reeks of it. The reader cannot leave the story without carrying with him a singleness of impression.

Why Enthusiasm is Essential.—A prime requisite for the obtaining of unity of impression is that the writer be enthused with his materials; that is, be overjoyed with the prospect of writing a story of a certain type. Thus, a per-son may experience a keen delight in reading and writing of a courageous, generous, resourceful man who is involved in very strenuous happenings, who plays the part of worshipper to beautiful woman; whose stirring efforts are crowned with success after very persistent fighting and continuous combat with forces of evil; who, in fact, is the very type of "hero" so dear to the hearts of those who are charmed by the story of action. If the author delights in writing stories of adventure, then he inevitably will approach his subject with a certain avidity to start his characters off on their perilous voyages. And, throughout the whole narrative, he will deal with his characters and their troubles, their loves and their triumphs, in a tender, enthusiastic manner; he will be one with them in spirit and body; he will give himself entirely unto them; and, dominated by the one supreme purpose of injecting inspiriting and dashing contention into his story, he will have no end but one in view—to make his hero a hero above all others, to make his heroine admired and loved and feared for as no other ever has been. And, in so doing, he will forget to disgress—he will have no desire to philosophize on some extraneous matter of small assistance to the ultimate achievement of the climax. Every incident, every bit of setting and of character, will be devised with the purpose of making the hero more heroic, of bringing out some trait, such as courage, so that when the story has been drawn to its conclusion the reader will know, without conscious thinking effort, that some particular emotion has been very pleasurably aroused.

Another writer, however, will not wish to write adventure stories. He is not in spirit with a Stevenson, a Dumas, a Scott. If he should write an adventure story, no particular emotion would be aroused in the reader, for the writer himself would not be sufficiently possessed of any adventurous complication to impart anything of distinction to a story of this type; it would be merely a stilted performance of puppets with no surging battles to fight, no great ideals to contest wholeheartedly for.

But this same writer might have a preference for the character story. If so, in such a story would his desires best be displayed in unity of impression. He might have in view the reaction of some character to temptation as brought against a certain strong sense of duty—the temptation, or its indulgence, and the duty running toward exactly dif-. ferent ends. The dominant tone of such a story would be the portrayal of the hero's struggle with self.

And so on. From which it is seen that before unity of impression may successfully be attained, the writer must b' informed unmistakably of just what tone he wishes to render, and this may be determined by the kind of story to be written, together with the effect to be rendered.

The Reader's Acceptance of the Author's Dominant Tone.—Some people's dreams are as real as their every-day life. Even their imaginings and fancies possess an air of reality, which, when viewed in retrospect, may seem to be recollections of actual experiences. Such people will write admirable stories drawn entirely from the imagination. They will believe in their stories ; they will give themselves up without reserve to their elaboration; the story will possess, then, a tone of sincerity and a unity of impression.

Consistency of Tone.—Take, for example, the ghost story. The beginner is advised against writing of the super-natural or the mysterious if he is too out-and-out a disbeliever in anything which smacks of the unreal—if he cannot be tolerant of the supernatural even for amusement's sake. For such a person to write a ghost story would bear an analogy to the mathematician touching his figures with an element of romance. I speak of this with regard especially to the ghost story, for the reason that exactly the same error has been made. Anne Radcliff in her novel, "The Castle of Otronto," attempts to explain the mysterious sights and sounds which impart such a delightful atmosphere of mystery and expectancy to most of her books, by resorting to the discovery of some mechanical devise that caused the noises and the strange sights. The effect is not to be mistaken. Very evidently the author did not think that the reader would care to accept the strange events of her story without the proverbial grain of salt; yet, in administering the salt she has spoiled the effect of the story. A writer anxious to give his story unity of impression would have left the cause of the mystery unexplained in such prosaic fashion.

How to Satisfy Your Reader's Expectations.—The average reader dislikes exceedingly to be disappointed when he has taken it for granted he is to be pleased. And, if a certain personage of a story is especially pleasing to the reader, then the reader is going to be a discomfited and enraged individual indeed if affairs turn out badly for the beloved. Hence arises this rule: If the expectations are aroused in a certain direction, that direction must be maintained undeviatingly throughout. If the story is to be one of light and airy romance, it must not end in tragedy; while, on the other hand, if the story is to be one of melancholy, it must not possess too prominent and disquieting strains of joyous humor, for then the contrast will be too strongly sketched and the reader will not know what effect was to be rendered.

The author, then, from the first sentence, if necessary, must strike the dominant tone and emotion of his story, just as Shakespeare did in Hamlet and in all the rest of his plays. Throughout some run the deep, presistent tones of tragedy, offset only here and there with swift, expert, running touches of peace, quiet philosophy, and humor, by bits of appropriate contrast, yet not sufficient to throw the reader from the pervading tone. Another sketches the humorous character of an alehouse, say the laughable Falstaff; and, in such a one, Shakespeare does not make the mistake of startling the reader by introducing tragic tones.

How to Make Your Story Distinctive.—It will be well to recall to the prospective writer at just this point a certain state of mind peculiar to the average reader. The reader, as a rule, is a very generous sort of person; if he votes to read an impossible tale of romance, of fantasy, or of adventure, he is ready heart and soul for the very worst the author is able to do, provided, of course, that the characters remain true to the type set for them. In the act of starting a particular story, the reader tentatively agrees to accompany the author upon any cruise of fate, to whatsoever climes the story may carry him ; he is eagerly prepared for the highest flights of fancy, provided the writer strikes that tone from the outset and gives the reader assurance that the story is one of fancy and will not, without warning, change into a domestic tragedy.

To bring out this point more strongly, let us compare two stories, both romantic in a general sort of way and both containing the element of love. We will consider "Aladdin's Lamp," from the Arabian Nights, and "The House Opposite," a tale in dialogue by Anthony Hope.

In the former production, the reader accepts the wonderful adventures of Aladdin as a matter of course. It is no matter of surprise to the reader, after he has been informed of the tone of the story, to be told that at the mere rubbing of the wonderful lamp genii appear to carry out the most extravagant demands of their master. We are prepared for all that comes and take delight in anticipating even more marvelous happenings. Nothing the hero could do or could have done to him would surprise us in the least, for we are momentarily expecting some genii to appear and perform still greater feats. Nor do we lay the story aside with any feeling of disgust or shame. Of course, we do not imagine for an instant that any such miracles could or ever did take place. Yet we admitted, during the actual reading, that they might, and in that silent agreement with the author did we read his production.

In the other production, "The House Opposite," is brought out a little characteristic peculiar to most people—that of forgetting the romance of their earlier days after they have settled down to the staid humdrum of house and home. This story deals very delightfully, very humanly, with just this trait of character.

The action is unusually trivial. A young lady slips out of her boarding-school and meets by chance a young man who resides in "The House Opposite," a young man she has seen before and often silently admired. The two go to a soda fountain where the heroine spends a shilling given her to attend a certain lecture. Everything is very commonplace, very plausible, very like happenings that might and doubtless do occur many times to every individual. The tone through-out is quiet, humorous, and romantic.

Now consider in what a stupefied condition the reader would be hurled if, during the stroll of the two young people down the street in the direction of the soda fountain, there should have appeared three horrible, distorted genii who should have demanded that they be asked to perform some incredible feat. Would the reader accept it; would he be likely to go on with the story? If he did, it would be with the intention of seeing just what was the matter with the author and of ascertaining further marks of insanity.

The Importance of Setting in Unity of Impression. —Of inestimable importance in imparting unity of impression and emphasizing the key tone of the story is setting. For stories of action or incident, there is no better setting than the dark forest—the raging flood—the sea—the city's street in the dead of night—the battlefield, and so on.

For stories of romance the appropriate background is the dance, perfumes, flowers, moonlit evenings, gardens, the female in distress—preferably in some suggestive and striking position—the lake steamer, the canoe, and so on in unlimited variation. All such devices of setting tend to give the impression of love, of the tender heart, of susceptible emotions, for it is through our senses that we are most visibly affected. We all have been told of, doubtless many of us have felt, the subtle influence of the moon on a summer's balmy evening.

It is for these reasons that the harmonized elements of setting are so invaluable. The reader can be made to accept the tone of a story far more readily when there exists no incongruous elements of setting. Just consider for a moment how the story of mystery, of dark and unfathomable doings, can be strengthened in suspense and emotional height by the introduction of the moaning wind, the dashing waves, the swishing rain, and the sighing trees.

But it is largely the story of adventure and the story of setting that will require the greatest selection of details for bringing out unity of impression most effectively. A story of character will not require great attention to setting, only as character is affected by environment. And a story of idea will demand still less adherence to strict selection of striking and harmonious setting effects for the purpose of bringing out the author's supreme purpose.

It will be seen from the foregoing that unity of impression occupies a very important niche in the realm of story writing. Unity of impression very often is the thing that decides for or against a story's acceptance. One story may be a splendid model of deverly devised and constructed plot complication, yet an editor on reading it may not be particularly impressed ; it will not remain fixed in his mind ; rather, he will promptly forget it and the writer will wonder why his story did not get by. Another story, simple in plot and dealing with commonplace incidents, may be so permeated and suffused with the author's theme, be so impregnated with the author's enthusiastic treatment of his main, underlying purpose and idea that the editor instantly will accept it.

How to Make the Right Impression.—The patient author, therefore, will determine well beforehand just what impression he desires to create in the reader's mind. The reader gets just what the writer gives, so much and no more. As much art and as much feeling as a story contains; just that proportion of delight does the reader experience. Story writing is an excellent mirror for the reader to look into the author's heart and read there the power of the latter's emotions and the sincerity of his convictions. The writer will do well to bear this truth firmly in mind. If he has assimilated all the rules of this system, yet his work persists in returning, then he has only himself to blame. It is only because the charm of his subject has not seized him with sufficient power for him to impart strong emotion, dynamic play of forces, delicacy of touch, and sincerity of tone to his work.

Writing: The Title Of Your Story

When to Choose the Title.—With regard to whether the title should be chosen before or after the story has been written, no absolute rule can be fixed. Some writers find they can decide with greater facility upon the best title for a script after all the constituents of the plot have been grounded firmly in their minds. The theme then shines out with greater meaning—luminous, apparent, exact. Or, again, the very uniqueness of the situation forming the main interest of the story may be so unmistakable in the concrete terms which explain it, that the proper title will come readily and unbidden to the pen. Still again, the title may sum up in a well-considered phrase the thematic importance and pith of the plot, though at the same time the cleverness of word arrangement and the significance of the words selected should portend a far different treatment of the theme than was before attempted.

Titles Themselves May Suggest Stories.—There even are people, places, phrases, and ideas that, in themselves, suggest excellent titles, hence it may be said that the title itself may often prove the foundation of a story. Consider what a multitude of suggestions tumble forth at the mention of the title, "The Man Without a Country," or "The House of Offense." Give either one of these titles to any number of persons who never had seen the stories to which they pertain, and it would not be exaggeration to say that not a single one would interpret the title exactly the same as any other.

Stories Often Judged by Their Titles.—There are several reasons why great caution should be exercised in the choice of the title. Chief among them is the influence, good or bad, the title is bound to have upon the editors. Even though the reader never looked at the title of the story he intended reading, if only to impress the editor it would be well worth the beginner's time to labor assiduously until he had found the exact title to fit his particular production. Editors and editorial readers are human just as the rest of us. If a manuscript comes before their attention bearing a title that brings up no definite mental picture in the mind, then they are very apt to cast the story in the pile with the rest of the rejected. The editor argues in this manner: Surely, if the writer has not enough perspicacity to devise a new, catchy title, nine chances out of ten the plot is just as uninteresting as the title. And such is the truth of affairs. Set before an editor a manuscript that possesses a heading guaranteed to make him gasp for breath by reason of its novelty and appropriateness—and the manuscript is half sold ! The editor's interest has been aroused, his favor has been gained, he is predisposed toward the story.

What the Title Should Be.—The good title possesses several essential requisites. It should be short, apt, original, specific, compelling. The long title usually tells too much and is too cumbersome. The title should be terse, meaty, epigrammatic, easily remembered. Perhaps the greatest requirement of the title, though, is that it be original. Take the average person who is an extensive reader of the popular magazines. What is the story he usually decides to read? Let the be-ginner consider his own experience as a reader. Has it not been his custom to run a finger down the table of contents and choose that story which, by its title, holds promise of having the quickest action, the most original and unique situation? Most assuredly. After all, the title is merely a device to tickle our curiosity. We all are seekers after novelty, excitement, sensation, or the intensely emotional; consequently, if any title cleverly intimates that the story for which it serves as ambassador has plenty of these heart-gripping elements in its unfolding, we are very apt to read it.

The Specific Title.—In addition to originality the correct title should be specific, as opposed to general. The reader wishes to have some hint concerning the character of the story before he reads it, for few people plunge blindly through the contents of a magazine. Surely no one could obtain such intimation from a title so general as "His Reformation." Such a title conveys only one definite idea: that some-where, somehow, in the course of the story someone is re-formed. The ordinary individual is not greatly desirous of reading about reformation in general. Reformations are of a thousand different hues and possibilities; they might take place in any corner of the globe and be enacted under an unlimited diversity of conditions. Such a title, then, is as general as life itself. The story with "His Reformation" as the title might contain the element of love ; in that case the title "Love" would apply just as well as the other. In-deed, it might apply better, for the reformation could be brought about by a man's love for a good woman. In that event it would be the part of the author to express in a single short phrase the main pecularity of just how the woman helped or inspired the man to reform. The writer is then approaching the center of the story's difference and claim to originality, the point wherein lies the story's distinguishable freshness.

Avoid Names as Titles.—The method of taking the title from the name of the chief character has long since gone out of style. So many novels, but especially those of the past century, were studies of the gradual unfolding of character that the title could, with some show of reasonableness, be the name of the main character. In retrospect the title was specific because the character whose name it was held the main center of interest throughout the novel. The reader had obtained a unified impression of one main character, predominant above all others; so the title seemingly was applicable. It lacked, however, any power of capturing the prospective reader's interest, and, in these days, when so many thousands of short stories are being published, there naturally must exist among authors quite strenuous effort to outdo all others in the freshness of their titles. Consequently, while they were prevalent in the past, the writer of short stories will do well to avoid such uninteresting titles as: "Marjorie Daw," "Romola," "Tom Jones," "Ligeia," "Schlemihl," "Amos Barton," and so on.

The Adjective-Name Title.—Akin to the title giving the name of the chief personage is the title in which the hero's or heroine's name is coupled with some descriptive term, intimating the exact situation in which the hero be-comes involved—some peculiarity which singles him out for especial attention, the place where the main events of the plot occur, and so on. Examples of the adjective-name title are, "Black Silas" and "Patient Griselda." Of the titles having the chief character's name coupled with the main situation of the story 'are: "Peter Rugg, The Missing Man," "The Shyness of Shorty," "The Americanization of Roll-Down Joe," "The Madness of Philip" and "The Ordination of John Fairmeadow."

Titles Based on Locations.—In many stories, chiefly those of setting, the. titles are chosen from certain places, or their peculiarities, in which the action occurs. Of such, are: "The House on the Beach," "The Mystery of Witchface Mountain," "The House of a Thousand Candles," "Up the Coolly," and "The Great Stone Face."

Titles That Name an Object.—Especially effective are those titles that are the names of concrete objects contained in the stories, objects that take an all-important part in the working out of the complication. The more common this concrete object is, the more familiar people are with its nature, the more likely are they to remember the story it heads, for the reason that the story and the concrete object, imaged firmly on the mind, remain irrevocably associated. Examples of such titles are: "The Monkey's Paw," "The Mask," "The Scarlet Letter," "The Piece of String," "The Black Cat," "The Turquoise Cup," "An Extra Blanket," and "The Black Pearl."

Titles Based on Themes.—Lastly in this category of titles come those based upon an idea preferably the theme of the story. Examples of such are: "Where Love Is, There God Is Also," "The Lost Word," "The Other Wise Man," "The Man Without a Country," "The Call of the Wild," and "The Law of His Nature."

The Enigmatical Title.—We will treat here very briefly the enigmatical title—the title which is so very puzzling, yet withal so very inviting—which seems contradictory of its very self, as "The Living Dead Man," yet suggesting a very engaging story. The enigmatical title is excellent in the hands of the expert; but, if the amateur dallies with it, his titles are more likely to be meaningless. This sort of title must be written with several aims in view: it must conceal effectively the story's main peculiarity, it must be very interesting, and must meet all the other requirements of the title with regard to length, etc. Examples of such titles are : "They," "The Man Who Was," "The Suicide Club," "Pigs Is Pigs," and "After He Was Dead."

Title's Relation to the Story's Tone.—He will be a wise author, too, who proportions his title to the kind and amount of interest in his story. Consider how disappointed and outraged a reader would be if drawn to read a quiet little character sketch, or a story of setting, by reason of a very inviting, almost sensational, title, which would have been an excellent caption for a blood and thunder tale but very much out of place as title for a character story. The writer's title, then, should arouse no more pleasurable anticipation than the author comfortably can satisfy through the telling of his story.

As an exercise in choosing interesting and appropriate titles, the reader should reflect on the aptness of the title after he has read a story. Let him study the theme, then ask himself what he would have named the story. In writing his stories, too, the beginner should choose not one title merely, but many of them; then he may choose the best.

Writing: Stories Of Mystery

The Detective Story.-Many of my readers will be especially fitted to write detective stories, stories involving the untying of a knot that seemingly has worked itself into a dizzy jumble of strands leading nowhere and incapable of any sensible solution. For their benefit I am appending an analysis of the detective story.

Working from Puzzle to Solution.—As the reader doubt-less will recall by casting his mind back over any detective stories he has read, this type of story follows the principle of ratiocination, or the deductive method, that procedure of reasoning which considers certain truths or hypotheses at hand and from them forms an opinion, or solves some puzzling situation. Therefore, the usual detective story starts off with a deep puzzle. A man has been murdered, a young girl has disappeared, the family jewels have dissolved, seemingly into mid-air, important diplomatic papers have been spirited away. The complication to be solved is set forth in the first few paragraphs. The remainder of the story concerns itself solely with the method of finding out why, who, and where —it consists of resolving the complication to a sensible conclusion.

The Degree of Mystery.—The more unusual the theft, the more bizarre the disappearance, the more meaningless the murder, the greater is the reader's eagerness to follow the mode of procedure by which the mystery is explained. Suppose a man is found murdered in his apartment. It is known that he had not an enemy in the world. We will assume he possesses no great amount of wealth or abilities which might make him a source of envy to any individual, and that he has always been disposed to sacrifice himself for the comfort of others. The problem is: who killed the man and why? There are absolutely no tangible reasons, no visible signs of a struggle, no slightest clue to work upon—the most imaginative fail to conjecture a plausible reason why this particular man should have been struck down.

When the crime consummated has no plausible motive to actuate it, then the reader's curiosity is very apt to be piqued to an extreme degree. The greater the mystery to be solved, the greater will be the reader's fervor in following the method of the individual who attempts to find the solution.

Maintaining the Suspense.—The author, however, must not commit the mistake of starting off with a very promising mystery to be solved and then allow the detective to triumph by any ordinary or unheroic means. The pleasure that the reader derives from the detective story rests largely in the enthralling adventures, chases and clashes the detective falls into, the setbacks, seemingly insurmountable, that he comes face to face with, and the very ingenious methods he resorts to for a solution of the problem.

In some detective stories the conclusion has not been reached even after the criminal is apprehended, for not yet do we know all the details of his capture and the brilliant maneuver of the detective in trapping his victim is not clearly revealed to us. Hence, the detective must tell, usually in his own words, as a conversation to a friend or accomplice, the manner in which he finally seized the criminal. Other stories of the detective variety are concluded immediately upon the confession or capture of the criminal or criminals, for the method by which the hero solved the mystery is explained step by step just as it occurred.

Giving the Reader a Hint.—It will be wise, occasion-ally, to allow the reader to get a look ahead into the story so that he will realize faintly just what is coming before the author allows the detective himself to know. To reveal some coming movement of your plot to a reader in this manner is very complimentary to the latter; the reader pats himself on the back for being more clever than the detective himself. This device is useful because it puts the reader in a kindly mood toward the author. You see, the reader himself is taking an active, positive part in your story just as much as the hero; hence, the former should be allowed the liberty, every now and then, of doing a little detective work himself and of flattering himself that he is a wee bit wiser than the detective. And inasmuch as the individual reads the story to derive pleasure from it, why not?

Varieties of Detective Stories.—It must not be sup-posed, though, that all detective or mystery stories have criminals to be run down, or that a man found dead has been killed by some human agency. The detective story based upon some accident, upon the scientific, or upon a unique move of fate, has been in vogue for some time and countless numbers of them, excellently and plausibly presented, too, have been published. A man may be killed in a multitude of ways, the author must remember. Any agency that will deprive a person of breath or of food or other means of existence, takes his life. A character might be killed by the agency of some gas, generated in some odd manner and disappearing almost immediately after the character's demise.

Making Your Villain Clever.—All the criminal characters of the detective story need not be vile, loathesome, dirty, atrophied individuals, embodying in their appearance the evils which they seem to delight in. The more intellectual and innocent in appearance the criminal, the greater will be the conflict between the two forces involved—one to keep the mystery unsolved and to prevent the approach of just punishment, the other to ferret out the criminal and triumph over the latter's fabrication of evil.

Example by Poe.—The author might do well to study several representative detective stories, especially those of such writers as Conan Doyle, Arthur B. Reeve, Anna Katherine Green, E. Phillips Oppenheim, and Edgar A. Poe. The last author named presents the mystery of his story, "The Mystery of Marie Roget," thusly:

This event occurred about two years after the atrocity in the Rue Morgue. Marie was the only daughter of the widow Estelle Roget. The father had died during the child's infancy, and from the period of his death, until within eighteen months before the assassination which forms the subject of our narrative, the mother and daughter had dwelt together in the Rue Pavee Saint Andree; Madame there keeping a pension, assisted by Marie. Affairs went on thus until the latter had attained her twenty-second year, when her great beauty attracted the notice of a perfumer, who occupied one of the shops in the basement of the Palais Royal, and whose custom lay, chiefly, among the desperate adventurers infesting that neighborhood. Monsieur Le Blanc was not unaware of the advantages to be derived from the attendance of the fair Marie in his perfumery; and his liberal proposals were accepted eagerly by the girl, although with somewhat more of hesitation by Madame.

The anticipations of the shopkeeper were realized, and his rooms soon became notorious through the charms of the sprightly girsette. She had been in his employ about a year, when her admirers were thrown into confusion by her sudden disappearance from the shop. Monsieur Le Blanc was unable to account for her absence, and Madame Roget was distracted with anxiety and terror. The public papers immediately took up the theme, and the police were upon the point of making serious investigations, when, one fine morning, after the lapse of a week, Marie, in good health, but with a somewhat saddened air, made her re-appearance at her usual counter in the perfumery. All inquiry, except that of a private character, was, of course, immediately hushed. Monsieur Le Blanc professed total ignorance, as before. Marie, with Madame, replied to all questions, that the last week had been spent at the house of a relation in the country. Thus the affair died away, and was generally forgotten; for the girl, ostensibly to relieve herself from the impertinence of curiosity, soon bade a final adieu to the perfumer, and sought the shelter of her mother's residence in Rue Pavee Saint Andree.

It was about five months after this return home, that her friends were alarmed by her sudden disappearance for the second time. Three days elapsed, and nothing was heard of her. On the fourth, her corpse was found floating in the Seine, near the shore which is opposite the Quartier of the Rue Saint Andree, and at a point not very far distant from the secluded neighborhood of the Barriêre du Roule.

The Supernatural, or Horror Story.—In constructing a story of the supernatural, a device is involved which, if it be not taken into account, will leave the author's "ghost" story lusterless. This device is that of making all the mystery, the causation of the horror, an "unknown" quantity, a thing of Doubt. The reader must not be allowed to catch a view of the thing from which springs the horror of the story, else all suspense will collapse. Unless the author is very clever indeed he will not be able to explain away an anachronism of Nature which he might unheedingly allow to appear before the eyes of several people. Rather he must leave his ghosts, his strange noises, his weird wailing, and the gnashing of teeth, to dark, empty chambers, to dank, winding cellars and underground chambers, whispering forests, eerie moors, or to mysterious deserted battlements of partly dismantled castles, their proper breeding places. The illusion of suspense and horror is broken immediately the reader knows just what it is that causes the furori of terrible emotion on the part of the characters, and, incidentally, the reader himself. The reader may know eventually just what the mystery is, but that is the end of the story; after he does know, he is no longer interested in that particular story, for his curiosity has been fully quenched.

Some horror stories reach their conclusion without the Unknown being seen or explained. The interest lies wholly in the fact that the hero or heroine escaped the loathsome influence of the terror, or braved its presence for one ever to-be-remembered your. The hero may look into the dark chamber and his fingers may clutch spasmodically at the thin air, his features may blanch slowly and his very blood may seem to congeal, yet the true form of the unspeakable, if it have any, remains a mystery to the reader. The main personage of the story may be so horrified by the spectacle, or by the cold hand that touches his face, or the terrifying events which happen, that he is unable to tell what caused them, even if he knew, and, by this inability to articulate his experiences, will the suspense of the story be maintained.

The master of the horror story is Poe. By a close scrutiny of his mystery stories, the student will learn much of the method employed in effectively devising and building up the materials of the horror story.

Writing: Important Advice

Sequence.— Before dealing with the revision of the story, I will take up first its actual writing. First of all, the efficient and systematic, the sure and careful, author will make out an outline of his plot. All important events, even of minor value, will be included in their natural order. In pursuance of this regular outline form, a series of minor crises will show distinctly their relation to each other, how crisis three dovetails neatly into crisis two on one end and crisis four on the other.

Concentration.—The story itself, a matter of from two to five thousand words, should be written at two, never more than three, sittings. If the author has every detail of his story firmly impressed in his mind, and if his outline is in good working order, there is no reason why he should not write nearly two thousand words at one sitting. The benefit to be derived from such a concentration of effort is manifest. An invaluable totality of effect, with a smoothness and logic of movement, is attained in this fashion; otherwise, these in-dispensable qualities might be lacking. Thus, the author might proceed as far as the last crisis leading to the climax, then tire out. On returning to his work the following day, he might not be able to launch into the spirit of the story, especially at the emotional height it had attained just before he broke off his writing the day before. In such a case, the climax would fall flat, lack point and thrill.

Thereby follows the suggestion: scribble off the first draft of your story with reasonable dispatch. Adhere to your outline, but do not endeavor as you go on to keep all the rules of correct writing always before you. Simply write your story as the outline unrolls to your pen each succeeding incident. Tell the story in your own words without a thought of style or impression. Become as interested as possible in the movements of your characters without becoming wholly detached from the balance of the story and its correct pro-portions. Do not worry about rules or technicalities. Leave them to the polishing process, of which we will now speak.

Be Sure What Effect You Intend.—After the first rough draft of the story has been completed, the story should be viewed with regard to unity of impression. This would include the injection into the story of the elements treated under the chapter heading, "Unity of Impression." The story must be predominantly adventure, character, setting, or otherwise, as the case may be. But the totality of effect gained must be as clearly distinguishable as the difference between Gothic and Moorish architecture.

Mean What You Say.—After the writer has carefully revised his work with regard to unity of impression, the story should be very closely scrutinized for all alloys of insincerity and lack-luster. The two greatest wrongs the story plot can commit are those of being insincere and lacking in suspense. If the writer's heart is not in his work, he cannot write sincerely; if he knows or cares little of what he attempts to tell others, his words will not ring true. He must, then, if his story lacks sincerity of emotion, inject the unadultered product and no imitation, for the reader refuses to accept substitutes. He must, if at first tempted to write of the idiosyncrasies of society folk, though he may know little of their real thoughts, motives, and characterizations, resolve to deal entirely with more familiar and simpler folk.

Strengthening Suspense.—As to suspense, the arousing of exaggerated anxiety concerning the outcome of certain complications can best be brought about by the addition of still more opposition. This does not mean that the story should be made longer, but simply that the bitter struggle of the hero to attain his goal should be magnified by a greater reverse and heart-rending repulse. If it is necessary to add other material, rather than lengthen the story, the writer should cull out some of the most casual incidents leading up to the climax or to the main opposition. By doing this and strengthening the opposition or the suspense, he succeeds in plunging into the story precipitately.

Eliminating the Unimportant.—The last process of revision will include the elimination of all redundancies. This culling of the superfluous will apply to all parts of the story—to the beginning, description, exposition, dialogue, ending, characterization, and so on. There are certain characters for whom the writer will have especial regard. The writer will be so taken up with their personality that he will too greatly stress their part in the story, and what started off as a story of action may suddenly shift into one of character. The same applies to setting and to ideas. Some writers will fall into the habit of preaching to their readers; others will consider certain places in their script as excellent points at which to bring out certain opinions. But the writer must determine to be severely economical. He must weigh each incident carefully, asking himself if the story could proceed more swiftly and clearly were it eliminated. If its detachment from the story leaves no perceivable void in the action, then it would have taken from the value of the story to have left it as it was. The writer, too, must ruthlessly eradicate all phrases to which he leans kindly. He is apt to inject them on all occasions; they, by constant repetition, come in time to mean nothing.

The careful consideration of all these elements in the re-vision of the manuscript will heighten its value and salability by many per cent.

How to Refreshen Your Imagination.—As has already been stated, trains of thought are started in the mind by the impression of sights, sounds, smells, and such, acting on the nerve ganglia which convey the records to their particular places in the brain. These impressions, when they arrive at their destination, excite to life other impressions close by. Thus a train of thoughts is aroused and thus is explained the sudden flow of ideas at the smell of a certain flower. The brain is a vast maze of associated ideas; the perfume a wife used in the days of her courtship, when suddenly en-countered at a later day, will bring back pleasant memories to a husband.

So an excellent way to stimulate the imagination is to keep the senses ever on the alert—to see all the beautiful things that life holds, to listen with intentness to all of Nature's murmurings, in her physical, moral, and human aspects.

The Mental Tonics That Successful Writers Employ. —Nearly all writers get their ideas under different circumstances. Balzac arose at midnight and took a long draught of the hottest, blackest, and strongest coffee obtainable. "H. G. Wells," says Tit-Bits, "is one of those fortunate individuals who brim with ideas. His collection is so great that no pen could clothe them with stories in a lifetime. He gets his ideas at night, and then brings them down to breakfast in the morning, where he dictates them to his secretary." F. Marion Crawford got his ideas on foot. To think out a novel, he would often walk forty miles. The imagination of Stanley Weyman is warmed and lubricated by the sound of running water; therefore, he does his writing in a house-boat. Robert Hitchens' thoughts do not begin to flow until he has his pen in hand. De Quincy wrote under the influence of opium, while Stevenson received a multitude of ideas for his stories from the coastline of Scotland. Frankly, however, it is very doubtful whether any of this extraneous paraphernalia was absolutely necessary to assist these various writers in securing suitable ideas. I believe that they liked to live under such odd circumstances and to indulge in such peculiarities. We all have desires for certain locations, positions, atmospheres, conditions, and so on. Consequently, if we are placed as nearly as possible in an ideal location our ideas are bound to work out more harmoniously.

How to Enlarge Your Creative Ability.—The solution is simple, so simple, in fact, that by its very manifestness alone will it have failed to occur to the majority of writers. Most beginners are determined to have writing the art of the juggler, of the necromancer. They rather imagine that successful authors are born under lucky stars; that their horoscope has been read by some astrologer, who advised them to write; that a person's adaptability for writing is divined by a soothsayer who forsees that some day the would-be author will be winning the frenzied plaudits of the world. But the truth of the matter is, creative ability is nothing more than the process of constant thinking—of continual invention of plots —the endless elaboration of themes—the tireless devising of attractive situations—the illustration, in a multitude of ways, of elemental emotions.

It is sufficient proof of this statement when one considers that people who have written for some time never have the slightest difficulty in securing ideas. They have become so accustomed to habits of observation, their imaginations have been so developed, their powers of exhibiting themes so enlarged, that plot-building is an unconscious process. Do not the fingers, in certain trades, become so nimble and skilled that they can perform seeming miracles? But the brain it-self is capable of being developed to a thousand-fold more nimble state than the fingers. Every plot you devise makes the next one easier, and also suggests another. And, as you construct plot after plot, you find that plot-building is the easiest part of writing. Never was more apt observation made than, "Practice makes perfect."

Writing: The Continuity, Or Scenario

Continuity Explained.—The continuity, or scenario, is the fourth division of the photoplay script—as used by the director in the studio. In the continuity, the plot is out-lined in action, just as it appears on the screen; everything your characters do—every action they go through—is recorded in the scenario. All reading matter appearing on the screen in the finished photoplay is also given. The model photoplay in Part IV of this system is the continuity for my story, "The Great Moment"; it is the original scenario written by Monte M. Katterjohn, continuity writer for Jesse L. Lasky. Before proceeding with this chapter, turn to Part IV and glance over this model scenario.

How a Photoplay is Produced.—In the early days of the motion picture, writers labored arduously over their play, developing its plot both as a synopsis and as a detailed scenario —just as it was to appear on the screen. In other words, before one could submit a script for sale, he was compelled to write a synopsis, a cast of characters, a scene-plot, and continuity. This finally proved unsatisfactory to the producers, who decided that a writer might be exceedingly clever at plot-building, but hopeless as a continuity writer; while, on the other hand, some of -the best continuity writers might be poor plot-builders. So photoplay writing has been made a double art—one class of writers are required to build plots and write them in synopsis form, while another class of writers, who work in the studio after your idea is purchased, take your plot and adapt it to the screen in continuity form.

The two types of writing are quite different—the former creative, the latter technical.

Quite apart from the laboratory where hundreds are employed in every big studio, there is the Scenario Department, the Art Department, the Architectural Department, the Electrical Department, the Research Department, the Wardrobe Department, to mention only a few of them. Each with a head and countless underlings.

The potentialities of the cinema are colossal; it is but in its infancy. Considering the wonderful mechanical appliances and methods, the labor and thought which is lavished upon each production, it seems astonishing that such numbers of them are so silly and bad. I hold quite decided views as to why this is so, now after a close study of the matter, and feel like having the presumption to utter them.

The successful producer has first of all to be a good business, man. Then he has to have the instincts of a good showman—one who feels the public pulse and knows what to give it--or rather understands the psychology of the public taste. There are only quite a few of them in. the whole industry--the rest have purely commercial aspirations and so they turn out trash year after year which the public has swallowled because it was hungry—but now, when hunger is appeased and the novelty of the entertainment has worn off, something more interesting to look at, is what is wanted.

This is the history of the average picture! A story is written by an author—it may be great nonsense or it may be good, but it must contain some ideas, or some situations, which the scenario department feels it can use. It is accepted and paid for—often very liberally, and then the author moves off the scene. It is then worried over and torn to pieces by two' or three people—reconstructed and sent to the continuity writer, who then puts it into numbered or "continuity" scenes, a "scene" being about a hundred feet of film or so of continued action before the director calls out "cut," and a fresh grinding of the camera begins. The continuity writer also puts in whether it is to be "long-shot" or "close-up" or at what angle.

As an example, this is what a "scene" would be if you were reading a continuity script. "Of John crossing the room and lifting with his right hand the curls of Mary's hair—discovering the bullet wound behind her right ear—raising his head to show horror and calling out for help, his face gradually changing to amazement as Henry enters the room and comes toward him with a knife pointing at his heart, the left hand holding a bunch of roses"—!!

The continuity writer also adds to the scenario numbers of his own ideas. The script, when finished, is then passed by the board of the scenario department, temporary titles are put in, and it is handed to the director who is going to direct the picture. He is given no time to study seriously, because he goes on from picture to picture without intermission, as a rule. He then selects his cast, which he has got the Casting Director's department to furnish him. The two stars are generally selected by the Producers Department, but the di-rector has a say in all the others. The cast got together, and the production manager and the director having given their orders to the Architectural Department (the sets for all the incidents of the story are built in the studio,) and the "locations" for out door parts are decided upon. A "Location Department" takes care of this. The two principals—the hero and heroine—are given copies of the script—the Ward-robe Department also, where all the dresses are prepared.

The Art Director has got together all the furniture required—either hired from huge emporiums, who do nothing else but loan to studios, or taken from the studio store. And, finally the producer's office has decided the day the picture is to begin "shooting," that means begin photographing, and so the story starts into being! The psychology of the characters' thoughts and actions has not been bothered about much so long as they can have been hustled into exciting and improbable situations! There is no evidence of one mind in the construction as can well be imagined ! The director then gives the thing a fresh twist as he goes along, so that at the end perhaps nothing of the author's meaning is left.

When it is all finished being photographed—a picture takes from three weeks to two months to make—the film is then cut and joined up by the Cutting Department—who slice out what they think fit, the director deciding the crucial points —and then the thing goes to the supervisors who, perhaps having other ideas, cut out any part which does not happen to interest them., and finally the Titling Department rewrites the titles, which may be quite at variance with the language which the author's characters would use—and the picture is passed by the Board of Censors—and so the public gets it at last!

With a process of this sort it can quite well be seen that the average picture, turned out by the hundred, cannot be a very interesting or convincing affair, and it is mere luck if it is not too trashy for even the long-suffering Amercian public td endure.

There are, of course, special productions where more care is taken and special directors who look after everything concerning their pictures themselves, and these are often very good and interesting, such as "Way Down East," "The Miracle Man," "The Mark of Zoro," "The Four Horse-men," "Foolish Wives," and so on, but I am talking of the ordinary every-day program picture.

The scenario departments of all studios (I am told) are obsessed with the idea that there must be what is called "pep" in every story, quite regardless of whether it is suitable or reasonable, or not. It does not disturb them if the situation is one where in life two or three words of common sense would have dispelled it—if it helps along to their exciting climax that is all right! In my play, "The Great Moment," there were two instances of this which I was powerless to have altered, or brought back to my original script where the psychology was true-to-life.

But to get back to my statement that there is a reason why pictures are such nonsense as a rule—I think I have shown why—they are just a hash made of many ingredients by an indifferent cook! To remedy this, an author who can write a good story should be required to study and learn what in studio language is called "the movie angle," and should be required to deliver his script written in such a way that it can be "shot" by the director without passing through so many hands. Then what he meant would reach the public, and the magnetism of the mind would be felt. But the real trouble lies with the authors themselves, who have no idea as a rule what the "movie angle" means.

However, since practically all producers prefer only a de-tailed synopsis of your plot—and prefer to have the continuity written in their studio—the beginner need not bother much with this phase of photoplay writing. All you need do to sell your play is submit a synopsis of your plot and a cast of characters, as previously explained. And, since continuity writing is of so little importance to the beginner, the subject is here treated in a brief manner.

It is desirable for the beginner to have some knowledge of continuity writing, however, for it may help him understand better the limitations of the photoplays. More important still, he should have this knowledge for the day is coming, I feel sure, when producers will again require the author to submit not only a synopsis of his plot, but a complete working scenario as well. Prepare yourself, then, for to-morrow.

The First Step in Continuity Writing.—One of the most important phases of continuity writing is the power of visualization—the act of forming a mental picture of the thing to be presented on the screen. You must be able to picture your story in your own mind as it will appear on the screen; you must be able to see every action you put into your work. Action is the all-important requisite of the photoplay. It is what your characters do that determines the value of your work; and, in order to make your characters act properly, you must first be able to see in your own mind just what they are going to do. Unless the continuity writer has a clear idea of the action himself, he cannot make the director understand.

Let us presume that you have built a plot possessing all the requirements of a salable idea. You begin to write the continuity. But are you able to visualize your play? Can you close your eyes and see just how it will appear on the screen? If not, you will surely stumble in the writing soon after you begin. And the chances are that you will continue to the finish along the line of least resistance—the result being absolutely impossible to produce, no matter how good the basic idea.

So the successful continuity writer is the one with the picture eye. You must visualize each scene so you will know just how it will appear on the screen. You must see the play in action before you can begin to write the continuity.

Cultivate visualization. Find a quiet spot where you will not be disturbed by anyone or anything. Close your eyes and concentrate on your play. See it in your own mind. Don't dream. Visualize! You will be surprised how easily you will promptly develop the faculty to such an extent that you can visualize anywhere—even on the street—no matter how intense the activity around you.

When to Introduce Characters.--Producers used to print the entire cast on the screen before the play started; that is, immediately after the title of the script had been flashed before the audience. This method was unsatisfactory because it was an exceedingly difficult matter for the audience to get the different characters clearly identified in their own minds before they saw any of the action of the play, especially in the brief space of time alloted to the exhibition of the cast. The proper time to show a character's name and identify him on the screen is when he first appears in the action of the play.

Every character in your play should be introduced just as quickly as possible, and should instantly be identified in the mind of the audience. Nothing is more irritating than to see a character whose relation to other characters is not clear. The usual method of introducing and identifying characters is to insert a sub-title. Turn to sub-title five of "The Great Moment." Note how Sir Edward Pelham is introduced.

Keep your chief characters on the screen long enough when first presented to let everyone become well acquainted with them.

Begin Action Promptly.—Many writers make the mistake of wasting too much time on preliminaries. They use up many scenes without getting down to business. They bore the audience with a number of incidents having little or no connection with their plot, whereas they should strike to the very heart of the subject at once. The plot should begin in the first scene, if possible. Don't timidly wade into the action of your play. Plunge in!

Action Should Progress Smoothly.—Action should be-gin in an unaffected manner and progress easily from one scene to another. Study carefully the working scenario in part IV of this system. Note how smoothly the action flows in each scene. Every action of the characters tends to reveal their motives, their inner nature, in addition to furthering the action of the plot.

Remember there must be sequence in the action. As previously stated, the events in your plot need not follow each other in chronological order, but they must follow in logical sequence. The action of your play must progress smoothly, logically, interestingly from the first scene to the second, from the second to the third, and so on to the end. Each scene must be the logical outcome of the preceding, in a broad sense, though the continuous trend of the action may be temporarily halted to create suspense. Do not write a single scene for effect or to pad. If there is no good reason for any action promptly eject it.

In your faithful endeavor to make the action in your manUscript advance as rapidly and as evenly as possible, do not make the mistake of hurrying too fast. Do not imagine that something sensational, some startling new development of your plot, must take place every moment. Strengthen the possibilities of your plot wherever possible, but do not kill a man every two or three scenes just to enliven things. The action should not jump from one thrill to another.

Don't let your imagination run riot. Don't let the action of your play run away with the plot. Make it smooth and rapid—but not too rapid.

The SubTitle Defined.—Sub-titles are the words and sentences scattered throughout the action of a photoplay and thrown on the screen. All subtitles may be divided into two general classes: (I) spoken titles, or actual quotations; and (2) explanatory titles, or descriptive titles, as they are sometimes called. Sub-title four of "The Great Moment" is an explanatory title. Subtitle ten is a spoken title, and as such it is labeled.

The "insert" is matter, or objects, other than sub-titles, inserted in a scene, and briefly interrupting the action of the play in order to clarify its meaning. A fine example will be found in scene forty-four of "The Great Moment."

A descriptive title is generally used to introduce a character; to explain action which otherwise would take up too much film footage; to explain action not clear in itself; or to cover an elapse of time.

Why SubTitles Should Be Short and Used Sparingly. —Every sub-title introduced requires for its exhibition several feet of film, the exact amount depending on the subtitle's length. This naturally subtracts from the total number of feet remaining for the picture itself. On account of this, you should content yourself with just as few sub-titles as you can in order to save for the action of the play every possible foot of film. If possible, make your plot clear without using any subtitles; for the use of one is the frank confession that you are not able to bring out certain phases of your plot without resorting to the written word.

Keep your subtitles as short and as crisp as possible. Fifteen or twenty words at the most is plenty. Sometimes it is not possible to condense, yet you should exert every effort to do so.

One very important reason why few sub-titles should be used is the fact that the patrons of moving picture theaters consist of a motley gathering of various nationalities, many of whom are unable to read English. Therefore, if much of the action of the play is told by subtitles, the audience fails to enjoy the picture by missing the point entirely. So, if you can bring out any phase of the plot in action without wasting too much time, omit the subtitle. Try to make your script just as intelligible to the new Italian immigrant as it is to the college professor.

Do not make the mistake of telling something in a subtitle and then repeating it in action. In fact, you never should use a sub-title if it can be explained in action. It might be well to note that the use of explanatory titles in the middle of a scene is quite unusual, while a spoken title generally comes in the middle. It is customary for the explanatory title to precede the scene.

In your efforts to make your sub-titles short and crisp, do not make them vague and indefinite. Confusing sub-titles will ruin the best photoplay ever written. The audience must understand everything. Aim to write your sub-title so clearly that it must be understood. Also, it is possible to use too few inserts, to omit making a certain action clear, or to fail to indicate the passage of time. This must be watched carefully.

If you can use a sub-title to advantage, do not hesitate one moment in writing it. An artistic subtitle often increases the value of a play.

Use Variety.—Try to avoid such monotonous expressions as, "The next day," "Two years later," "The following day," and "Six months later." This type of subtitle is like the speech labels of some of the past writers, who always ended a piece of dialogue with, "said she," or "said he." Try to get variety in the wording of your titles.

Why the SubTitle Is Important.—It has often been said that the subtitle has no place in the photoplay; that it is a "child without a parent." This is probably an exaggeration. A photoplay without a subtitle would be somewhat like a stage play without conversation—who would care to see one? To use the words of a writer in the New York Tribune. " `Sumurun' was all very well, but it was as good entertainment as `Tea for Three' or `Sleeping Partner'?

"Some titles jump out and hit you. They never could seem a part of the story. They are the so-called decorative titles, done by misguided persons in their best Spencerian style. They have large curlicue capitals and sometimes wreaths of daisies or doves holding olive branches in their beaks. Titles should be so unobstrusive that one does not realize he is reading printed words.

"The trouble is that not enough attention is paid to the titles in a picture. What heroine could ever live this down, for instance? `Brother, will you speak to my fiance and try to ascertain the cause of his coldness? Things have not been going smoothly of late between he and I.' And yet we read that very title, supposedly spoken by one of the stars, and the picture was made by a well-known film corporation.

"And why do so many title writers yearn for the past tense? All of their remarks take the reminiscent form—they embrace restrospection, and refuse to relinquish it. `Mary Brown was a beautiful young teacher.' `The cabin stood on the edge of the desert.' `Robert loved his mother's maid, who was a pure and lovely girl.'

"Of course there are cases where we admit that titles are superfluous. It isn't necessary to say anything about it. All too frequently Mary isn't beautiful or young, but if she is, people like to discover such little things for themselves. Let the pictures also speak for themselves."

The Close-Up and the Semi-Close-Up.—A Close-up is a scene photographed with the camera near the object or action. The Semi-close-up is a scene in which the camera is not close enough to the object, or action, to be a Close-up, yet is not distant enough to be a long-shot. The Semi-close-up, then, is "in between" a Long-shot and a Close-up; it is a long Close-up or a short Long-shot.

The Close-up is nothing more than a close view of an object or an action. Formerly it was called a "bust," and was used to obtain a near view of the head and shoulders of a character. But to-day a close view of anything—head or hand, face or shoulders, foot or any part of the body, or any-thing in action—is called a Close-up. As previously explained, a still object—a newspaper, book, or telegram—is called an insert.

The Semi-close-up is generally used to show a close view of two or more people—when a close-up would not be necessary or would not show them sufficiently to advantage. It is also used to bring out details of action—a thing the Long-shot often does not do.

A few years ago it was thought necessary to show the full figures of all the characters in every scene. D. W. Griffith thought a play would be more interesting if detailed action were brought out. He conceived the idea of the Close-up. Now, if a director is in doubt, he always brings the camera as close to the object as possible.

There are many examples of the Close-up in "The Great Moment." See scenes six and seven.

The Fade-In and Fade-Out.—The first scene of most photoplays often begins with the screen dark; gradually the scene appears, constantly becoming larger until the full scene has unfolded, somewhat as though we were viewing it through eyes slowly opening. This is called the "Fade-In."

At the end of a play, the final scene often disappears slowly into darkness. This is termed "Fade-Out." Scene one in "The Great Moment" illustrates the Fade-In; scene five hundred thirty the Fade-Out.

The Fade-In and Fade-Out are also used to show an elapse of time. Generally the Fade-In is used in a scene if the Fade-Out was used in the preceding scene. If, however, a sub-title follows the Fade-Out, it is not absolutely necessary to use the Fade-In.

The Fade-In is also used to emphasize a person or thing. In this case the iris diaphragm is closed until only a small portion of the scene is discernible.

The Lap-Dissolve.—The Dissolve-In and Dissolve-Out are the same as Fade-In, except that the scene disappears into a haze, or mist, or emerges from it. Or some scene may "dissolve into" another and "dissolve out" again into the preceding scene. But this has another name. It is termed Lap-Dissolve. This effect is obtained by lapping the end of the negative of one scene over the beginning of the next scene. 'When this is pictured on the screen, the first scene gradually becomes indistinct; but, before it has entirely dissappeared, another scene appears. And vice versa.

Double Exposure.—You have perhaps often witnessed scenes, especially in comedies, in which a character walked along the edge of a skyscraper—a hazardous, not to say impossible, procedure. Such a scene is easily made, without risk, in this manner: The camera is first taken to the top of the building and a scene is photographed. Then the camera is taken to the studio, the film is rewound, and a scene is taken on the same film showing the comedian walking as though on the building—but all the while in perfect safety. This is a useful trick ; it is called Double Exposure.

The Flash.—The Flash is a scene appearing on the screen only for a brief time. It is, then, merely a fleeting glimpse of a regular scene. Suppose you have shown a letter on the screen in,, say, scene ten. The audience is given plenty of time to read it in this scene. Suppose it must be shown again, say in scene forty—perhaps this time, in the hands of the recipient. This time it is "flashed" on the screen only long enough for the audience to recognize it as the letter in scene ten. The flash is used to save time, film footage, and to speed up the action.

The Visions—You have often witnessed scenes in which, to a character in meditation, comes a vision of some person or thing. This is properly called a Vision. The effect is obtained by making a double exposure, already explained.

Reverse Action.—Have you ever witnessed a play in which a character jumped from the ground to the top of a building, an impossible feat? If so, you doubtless wondered how it was done. The character jumps from the building to the ground, or, if it is high, is let down by invisible wires. During the process, the scene is photographed—but the camera is running backward. When the film is completed and run properly in the picture, the effect is that of the character jumping from the ground to the top of the building. This is termed Reverse Action.

How and When the Cut-Back Is Used.—The Cut-back is an arrangement of scenes whereby the action in a play is interrupted to show another scene, or set of scenes, and then returned to later. The Cut-back is invaluable for many reasons; it is constantly used in the best modern plays.

The Cut-back generally does one or more of the following three things: (1) Creates suspense, (2) covers a gap in action, or (3) eliminates the too frequent use of sub-titles.

1. To Create Suspense.—This is the most common use of the Cut-back. Remember that thrilling picture wher ein the heroine is abducted by the "villain"? He carries her to an old mill and places her, bound and gagged, on a run-way slowly conveying her to a grinding death between great, ponderous, crushing wheels. But the hero hears of her capture! He starts to the rescue—but has some distance to cover. Here the Cut-back begins to be useful. The main action of the play—the scene in the mill—is constantly interrupted to show the hero hastening to the girl's rescue—ever drawing nearer. The closer the girl draws to death in the grinding wheels, the closer her hero gets to the mill. And the action is constantly "cut-back." This creates suspense.

2. Covering a Gap in Action.—Suppose a murder is absolutely necessary to the telling of a story. The Board of Censorship will not pass a picture if the crime is actually depicted on the screen. The Cut-back saves the situation. The murder scene is shown until the assailant draws a gun, or knife; then the scene is interrupted and the action cut to an-other scene or character; then we quickly "cut-back" to the murder scene, which shows the victim dead and the murderer escaping or captured. There are many ways of covering a gap in action with the cut-back; the above is only one.

3. Eliminating Sub-Titles.—In the murder scene de-scribed above, the Cut-back not only made the picture satisfactory as far as the Censors were concerned, but also rendered it unnecessary to introduce a sub-title. Again, suppose you introduce a dinner on the screen: It would be monotonous and wasteful to show the entire meal. So you merely show the guests as they sit down to the table, then cut to another scene or set of scenes, then shortly return to the dinner, and we see the meal ended. Thus the use of a sub-title is eliminated.

Writing: The Photplay Defined And Explained

A Simple Definition of the Photoplay.—Numerous attempts have been made to define the photoplay. Most of the definitions have been unsatisfactory, however, because ambiguous. The simplest definition possible is: a story told in picture action instead of words. That is, a photoplay is a story told almost entirely in pantomine by actors, whose thoughts and motives are brought out by their actions. As a rule, it is necessary to assist the actor with some worded description thrown on the screen. This combination of action with a few words is a photoplay.

All moving picture subjects are not photoplays. In many instances, moving pictures consist of a series of scenes exhibited for education or information. Witness the Burton Holmes Travelogues or the Pathe Weekly. Here there is no story to be told. Therefore, there is no photoplay, for the photoplay is the modern way of telling a story.

The average magazine story often consists largely of description and conversation. Some of the best passages are almost entirely word-pictures without action. This is not photoplay material. The photoplay must be all action, be-cause it appeals to the eye alone. We might define the photoplay, then, as a story of the eye.

But it is best for the beginner to consider the photoplay as a story told in action instead of words. And this little word action should be kept constantly in mind; it plays an important part in photoplay writing.

Why There Must Be Action in a Photoplay.—In stage stories we see a character enter the scene and say: "It took me all of two hours to get here from my office. The streets were so crowded it was almost impossible to move. I had a terrible time." Then he relates his experience. This all happens in one scene on the stage. But, in a photoplay, several scenes would be used to picture the same thing. We would see the character leave his office, see him go down the street, follow him through it all, including even his arrival at the club. But, on his arrival there, he would not relate his past experience, as in the play, but would proceed to carry out some new action.

So it becomes plain that the one big requirement of the photoplay is action. In fact, the whole plot is told almost entirely in action. Occasionally, a little explanation—a few brief sentences, a telegram, a photograph—is thrown on the screen to clarify some phase of the story not made clear by action alone; but, in the main, action tells all.

Let the reader think of the photoplay as a pictured story in which action, gestures, facial expression, and elements of character replace the dialogue and description of word stories. The person who sees a photoplay must find it a simple matter to identify all characters, to know what type of people they are, just what they aim to accomplish, and whether they win or lose. He must thoroughly understand the plot entirely from what he sees the characters do, with very little explanatory matter. In fact, it might almost be said that a perfect photoplay should consist entirely of action; for, in perfect pantomine, words are not needed. Often, however, the printed matter thrown on the screen serves to heighten the artistic finish of the play; therefore, even though it be possible, it is not altogether desirable to omit all explanatory matter.

The important thing for the new writer to remember is that, in photoplay writing, he must depend entirely upon his ability to make his characters act. Dialogue and description are the story-writer's tools. The photoplaywright must work with action.

In the photoplay, we have the nearest approach to the perfect entertainment—that in which the individual is under no mental labor, not having to gain the thoughts of the author through words. On the contrary, the photoplay's entire plot smoothly unfolds itself as if by magic before the spectator in the form of a continuous, easily-understood story, at times given added attraction, variety, and strength through the written word. ' In story writing, the constant aim of the author is to bring up images in the mind of the reader. All of the author's words must be arranged in such a clever manner that the reader becomes unaware of them and imagines that he is the actual actor in, or sole spectator of, the gripping events depicted. In the photoplay, the author does not en-counter this difficulty.

As previously stated, many stories are not suitable for photoplays. This is because they consist so largely of the abstract, of description, of word-pictures. They lack action, and action is the stuff photoplays are made of. Photoplay characters cannot dream of the past or of the future. They cannot be philosophers or witty conversationalists. They must act. They must do things. They must keep moving without an idle moment.

Writing: Dictionary Of Words Used In Photoplay Writing

Before proceeding with a study of the component parts of a photoplay, it is desirable that the beginner get a complete understanding of the meaning of the technical terms used in photoplay writing and in the studio. Below is a complete list of all technical words and phrases now in use. It is important to note that these terms are defined in relation to the photoplay, not according to their accepted meaning; there-fore, in many instances, the definitions differ from the common usage of the terms. The meaning given is that prevalent in studios.

ACTION—The doings of the various characters, by which the plot is unfolded and the story told.

ADAPTATION—A photoplay taken from published fact or fiction.

ANGLE-SHOT—A view of a scene taken from a different angle.

ART DIRECTOR—A studio member who sees that art objects in a "set" are correctly handled.

ATMOSPHERE—Differently interpreted; usually meaning the local color surrounding a scene or play.

AUXILIARY CHARACTER—A minor character.

BUNCH LIGHTS—Clusters of incandescents used in photographing scenes.

BUSINESS—Author's instructions for a certain piece of acting.

BUST—Obsolete for close-up.

"CAMERA"—Just before the photographing of a scene begins, the Director calls "Camera," and the cameraman immediately gets everything ready for the .beginning of the scene action, which opens when the director says "Shoot."

CAMERA EYE—Power of visualization.

CAPTION—Obsolete for sub-title.

CAST—Abbreviation of Cast of Charatcers.

CAST OF CHARACTERS List of characters appearing in a play.

CHARACTER—One of the fictitious persons in a photo-play.

CINEMATOGRAPHER—The cameraman, who operates the motion picture camera.

CLIMAX—The highest point of interest and suspense, from which all action descends; the untying of the "major knot"; the supreme crisis of a play.

CLOSE-UP—Scene photographed with the camera close to the action.

CONFLICT--Antagonism of characters; conflict is the indispensable element of plot.

CONTINUITY—The succession of scenes, sub-titles, and inserts, exactly as they are to be directed, acted, and photo-graphed.

CONTINUOUS ACTION—A scene in a single location acted by one set of characters; or action followed without interruption in a series of locations.

COOPER-HEWITTS—The mercury-vapor lamps used overhead in studios for interior scenes or night work. They give off a ghastly blue light making the face look swollen and purple in places.

CRANK-Meaning to photograph. See "Camera." CRANKING—Photographing.

CRANK-SPEED—Speed at which the picture is to be photographed.

CRISIS—A critical moment in the development of a plot; a minor climax.

CUT-BACK—To return to a previous scene after introducing other scenes.

CUT SCENE—A scene shortened after being viewed in the projection room. Also instruction to stop camera.

DENOUEMENT—That portion of a plot following the major climax; the ending; the explication.

DESCRIPTIVE TITLE—A sub-title explaining anything not shown in the plot.

DIRECTOR--One who oversees the production of a photoplay.

DIRECTOR OF LOCATION—One who finds suitable places throughout the country to be used as settings for plays.

DISCOVER—Meaning a character is "on" when a scene begins.

DISSOLVE—To blend one scene into another.

DOUBLE EXPOSURE—A positive picture made from two overlapped negatives.

DREAM PICTURE—An improbable play, finally explained by saying that it was all a dream. ENTER—Entrance into a scene.

EPISODE—One section of a serial play.

ESTABLISH—To make clear the relation of one character to the others; or to register, in a broad sense, as "establish" innocence, anger, or jealousy.

EXHIBITOR—One who operates a motion picture theater.

EXIT, EXEUNT—Former, one character passing out of a scene; latter, two or more characters doing the same thing.

EXPLANATORY TITLE—Sub-title clearing up a

vague part of the plot.

EXTERIOR—Out-of-door setting.

EXTRAS—Actors or actresses engaged by the day to play minor parts.

FACTION—A set of characters working together for a common purpose.

FADE—Used in compound form; Fade-in and Fade-out; former, gradual appearance of a scene; latter, its gradual disappearance.

FAKING—Making the impossible seem possible.

FEATURE—An unusual subject generally; sometimes an ordinary subject unusually handled.

FILM—Three meanings : (1) A chemically sensitized piece of celluloid used in motion picture photography: (2) a photoplay ; (3) to turn a scenario into a finished play.

FILMING—Producing a photoplay.

FLASH—Showing a scene or part of a scene on the screen for a moment.

FRAME—(1) Each single picture in a photoplay; a series of scenes following each other quickly make the pictures seem to "move"; (2) part of the camera used to exhibit a photo-play.

FREE-LANCE—A photoplay writer who submits his plays when and where he desires; not under contract with any one company.

GESTURE—Registering by action; opposed to facial expression.

INSERT—"Still" matter inserted in a play—not including a sub-title. Examples: letters, telegraphs, newspapers, and the like.

INTERIOR—Scene supposed to take place indoors.

INTERPOSE—Interrupt orderly procession of events.

INTRODUCTORY TITLE—Sub-title introducing a character.

IRIS—Diaphragm regulating the aperture of the camera lens.

IRIS-IN—Opening the iris on a scene. IRIS-OUT: Closing the iris on a scene.

LABORATORY-Department of studio, wherein films are made into plays for exhibition after being filmed.

LEAD—Principal part in a play.

LEADER—Obsolete for sub-title.

LIGHTING—Tinting a play to produce various night or day effects.

LOCATION—Place outside of a studio whereat a scene or number of scenes are photographed.

LOCATION LIST—Itemized statement of locations to be used in a particular play.

LONG-SHOT—A full view of a scene.

MAIN TITLE—Name of a play.

MAT—A plate put over a lens when a scene is photo-graphed to produce the effect of looking through a key-hole, field glasses, and so on.

MUTIPLE REEL—A photoplay of more than one reel.

NEGATIVE—The exposed film run through the motion picture camera. The "positives" all are made from the one negative.

OFF—The reverse of "On."

ON—When a character is "in the picture," he is "on."

PAD—Inserting unnecessary matter in a play.

PAN OR PANORAMA—Moving the camera from side to side or up and down while a scene is being photographed.

PANTOMINE—Action by movement of the body or features to convey certain meanings.

PHOTO-DRAMATIST—Another term for photoplaywright.

PHOTOPLAY—A story told in pictured action.

PICTURE STORY—A photoplay.

PLOT—A complete idea elaborated into situations according to the rules of plot-building. In a broad sense, plot is the scheme, plan, argument or action of a photoplay.

PORTABLE LIGHTS—A rack of mercury lights which can be carried from one point of the studio to another.

POSITIVE—A film printed from a negative; the finished photoplay as used by exhibitors.

PRINCIPALS—The major actors or actresses in a photoplay.

PRODUCER—One who causes a manuscript to be turned into a photoplay; usually the financial head of a company.

PROJECTION MACHINE—Machine used by exhibitors to exhibit plays on the screen.

PROPS—Abbreviations of properties; the objects used in preparing "sets."

PROPERTY LIST—Itemized list of properties.

PUNCH—Action calculated to arouse strong emotions on the part of an audience.

READER—One who assists the scenario editor in looking over submitted manuscripts.

REEL,—(1) Metal spool on which film is wound for exhibition; (2) approximately 1,000 feet of film.

REGISTER—To portray emotions of anger, hatred, etc.

RELEASE—A certain date on which a play is surrendered for exhibition.

RELEASE TITLE—The main title finally selected for a photoplay, (See working title)

RELIEF—Inconsequential action following a heavy dramatic scene.

RETAKE—Photographing an unsatisfactory scene a second time.

RETROSPECT—To revert to a former action.

SCENARIO—An outline of a photoplay describing in every detail the development of the plot exactly as it appears on the screen and showing all sub-titles and inserts.

SCENARIO EDITOR—HEAD of the scenario staff.

SCENARIO STAFF—Writers and readers of photoplays under employment of a film company.

SCENE—That portion of a play's action taken by the camera without stopping. A photoplay is made up of a series of scenes.

SCENE-PLOT--Itemized list of various scenes classified as "interiors" and "exteriors" for the convenience of the director.

SCREEN The white surface on which- films are exhibited.

SCRIPT Abbreviation of manuscript; a complete photo-play in typewritten form.

SEMI CLOSE-UP-A distant close-up or a close long-shot; "in between" a close-up and a long-shot.

SERIAL—A photoplay presented in instalments.

SEQUENCE—A connected series of events.

SET—Arrangement of furniture, background, and the like, for a scene.

SHOOT—When the Director is ready for the Cameraman to begin photographing a scene, he exclaims "Shoot."

SILHOUETTE—Figure or figures outlined.

SITUATION —A temporary state of affairs at any point in the plot.

SLAPSTICK COMEDY—Comedy of a "rough" nature.

SLOW-CRANKING–Usually, when a picture is photo-graphed, sixteen frames are exposed to action per second. Often, however, only eight of twelve frames are photographed —called "cranking eight" or "twelve"—in order to make the action seem unusually fast when the picture is exhibited. This method is often used in comedies.

SPECTACLE —A photoplay containing a majority of gorgeous scenes. "Intolerance" a fine example.

SPLIT REEL—Approximately 1,000 feet of film containing more than one subject; split reels have gone out of vogue.

SPOKEN TITLE—A sub-title consisting of a quotation by a character.

STAR—A very well-known and popular player.

STILL-A photograph of a scene or a character in a play made with an ordinary camera. "Stills" are used for advertising purposes.

STORY—Plot.

STRUGGLE—The contention resulting from opposition in the plot.

STUDIO—The place where photoplays are made.

STUNTS—Extraordinary or hazardous effects, tricks, or actions.

SUB-TITLE—A word, a phrase, or a sentence thrown on the screen during the action of a play.

SUSPENSE—The doubtful state of mind of the audience as to the outcome of events.

SWITCH-BACK—Same as cut-back.

SYNOPSIS—An abstract or summary of the plot. TECHNIQUE—The skillful putting of an idea into proper form.

TECHNICAL DIRECTOR—One who is supposed to see that inconsistencies do not appear in the details of a set. A Technical Director would not allow electric lights to appear in a picture of '76.

TELESCOPIC LENS—Lens for long distance photography.

THEME—That which a plot is about.

THRILLS—Unique action, often spectacular, dangerous, or unexpected.

TIME ELAPSE —A sub-title, or a fade-out, or a combination of both, indicating the passage of time.

TINTING—Passing daylight pictures through pale colors to give them special effects—night, fire, etc.—when shown on the screen.

TRUCK-BACK—The act of moving the camera back from the scene while it is being photographed.

TRUCK-UP—The reverse of Truck-Back.

VIGNETTE—A close-up of a face or article.

VISION—The forming of mental actions not in the immediate scene.

VISUALIZATION—Forming mental pictures of how a scene will appear on screen.

WIDE-ANGLE LENS—Specially wide-constructed lens for photographing scenes at short range.

WORKING SCRIPT—The manuscript used in a studio to produce a photoplay.

WORKING TITLE—The title of a photoplay used in the studio while the picture is being filmed. The working title may or may not be used as the play's final title. (See release title)

ABBREVIATIONS

Ex.—Exit.

Ent.—Enter

c. u.—Close-up

Bus.—Business

Ms. or Script—Manuscript Pan.—Panorama

Disc.—Discover

m. g.—Middleground f. g.—Foreground

b. g.—Background Int.—Interior Ext.—Exterior Props.—Properties

Writing: The Component Parts Of A Photoplay

The Importance of Plot.— In all fiction, plot is one of the most important elements. Plot is the story itself. Without plot there is no story. But, in the photoplay, plot has even greater weight than in the story. This is because the photoplay does not permit description or character drawing, as we know both in stories. Take plot from a photo-play and little remains. There is no action, for you cannot have action without cause and effect—without an orderly arrangement of incidents and situations reaching a climax—and this is the very essence of plot.

Plot, then, is of paramount importance. But, before you can interest an editor in a plot, you must have some way of presenting it to him—some clear, comprehensive, understand-able form in which to tell your story briefly and attractively. To do this in a thorough manner, the complete photoplay must be divided into four major parts or divisions.

The Four Parts of a Photoplay: 1. The Synopsis. —The first division is called the synopsis. Here the writer outlines, in a comprehensive manner, all of the action in his plot. The synopsis is a general view of the story; an abstract or summary of the action; it tells the story in detailed, narrative form, without dialogue or useless description.

In the synopsis your characters are identified and mentioned by name, so that the editor knows who they are. But, in addition to presenting your characters in the synopsis, you must also arrange them in order of their importance in the second major division of the photoplay, called the Cast of Characters.

2. The Cast of Characters.—The cast of characters, or cast, as it is usually termed, is a list of all the people who appear in your play, together with a few brief words, describing the main characteristics of the major characters. The characters should be arranged in the order of their importance, the main character coming first and the others following in an orderly manner. The cast should immediately follow the synopsis of your story. This completes the second main division of the photoplay script.

It may be well to note here that the first and second divisions of the complete photoplay script—synopsis and cast—are all the writer sends to the producer when submitting his work for sale.

3. The Scene-Plot.—The third division is the scene-plot, which consists of a brief outline of the various scenes, or "sets," used in your script. The scene-plot shows the editor or producer exactly how many different scenes are needed, how many different interior or exterior settings he must use, and how many scenes are to be photographed in each setting. The scene-plot is used only in the studio when the script is actually being produced.

4. The Continuity, or Scenario.—The fourth divison of complete photoplay script is the continuity, or scenario, as it is frequently called. In the continuity, your plot is not told in narrative, as it is in the synopsis, but is worked out in action. That is, instead of' being told by description, your plot is outlined as a series of actions, just as it appears on the screen, together with all of the necessary reading matter, such as, letters, photographs, newspaper items, quotations, and the like.

In other words, the continuity is a succession of scenes exactly as they are worked out by the director, put into action by the characters, and photographed by the cameraman, together with all the titles and inserts appearing on the screen.

Why Only Two of the Four Parts Are Important.—So far as the beginner is concerned, he need concern himself only with two of the four parts indicated above: synopsis and cast. Editors prefer to receive manuscripts merely in detailed synopsis form, together with a cast. No continuity is wanted. It is desirable, however, for the writer to acquaint himself with continuity writing so that he may have a comprehensive knowledge of what is possible in photoplay writing. Furthermore, if he masters the art of continuity writing he will be equipped to accept a position as staff writer in any studio.

Remember, then, that the manuscript submitted by a "free-lance" consists only of two parts:

I. Synopsis.
II. Cast of characters.

And that the complete photoplay script, actually as produced in the studio, consists of four parts—two of which are written in the studio after the script has been purchased from its author:

I. Synopsis.
II. Cast of Characters.
III. Scene-Plot.
IV. Continuity, or Scenario.

Important.—We have received hundreds of letters from readers of these books wanting to know if they shouldn't submit the continuity of their manuscripts when submitting them to editors for sale. We cannot emphasize too greatly the fact that you should submit only a detailed synopsis of your plot and a cast of characters. Do NOT send continuity to any editor, and do NOT waste time writing continuity, except for practice.

The Publishers.

Writing: The Photoplay Plot

The Function of Plot.-Before the actual writing of the four principal parts of the photoplay is taken up, it is desirable to get a thorough knowledge of just what constitutes a photo-play plot. This is desirable for the reason that the actual writing of a photoplay cannot begin until a plot is first worked out. Furthermore, plot-building is by far the most important phase of photoplay writing. If you cannot build plots, you cannot write photoplays.

A clear way to define and explain the function of plot is to say that plot portrays struggle in all of its phases. Struggle is the chief factor of plot. One character, or several characters for that matter, want something. They try to get it. Someone, or some thing, resists the efforts to obtain the thing desired. The delineation of these efforts—sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing, here changing in plan, there surprising the antagonist—is said to be plot.

Why There Must Be Opposition.—The photoplay plot is life pictured on the screen. As every one knows, life is made up largely of struggle or conflict. Therefore, plot should be a record of struggle. That struggle may be a combat between the forces of the individual and nature, as it is in so many of Victor Hugo's novels. Here the hero or heroine is fighting against the forces of fate. Or the struggle may be between the moral forces of a single character. Thus, in "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," there is a struggle between the characteristics of the same individual. In this story, the struggle between the good and the bad becomes so powerful that the demon of bad and the angel of good are personified. In a recent film adaptation of a religious novel, the main character, a minister, is found struggling against his awakening conscience, which tells him to follow in His steps, to take up the sword against the evil forces of his conscience--a struggle only too long neglected. Again, the struggle may be between mere physical forces, as it is in so many of Jack London's and James Oliver Curwood's stories. Here the main character, a beast or a man, struggles against some hereditary enemy. In Robinson Crusoe we see man struggling against nature—against the sea, for food, for shelter, against beast, cold, and hunger.

The photoplay plot, then, is a record of struggle, a history of conflict—man's struggle with nature, man against man, man against society, man against temptations. This is really life itself. Every great book or work of the ages deals largely with conflict. Even the Bible is a history of struggle —the struggle of right against wrong. All life is a conflict —never ending.

Why a Mere Series of Events is Not a Plot.—There cannot be plot unless there are complications, which must be worked out and fully cleared away before the story ends. Many beginners have the idea that a mere series of events, closely connected perhaps, but not involving any change, or crisis, in the lives of the characters, is plot. Not so. A mere chain of events does not make plot. Suppose Frank, our hero, joins the Aviation Corps, goes to France, works hard, becomes a great bird-man, wins praise, and re-turns home. Is this plot? Most assuredly not, although it contains excellent plot material. But—let Frank meet an old enemy in France! Now we have plot! Complications arise, a big crisis may occur—in short, there approaches struggle, the ultimate solution of which constitutes a real plot.

Whatever the character of the struggle, there must be contest of some sort; for the photoplay without some clearly defined and original conflict—that is, a struggle occasioned by new motives worked out along new lines—is not a photoplay at all. It is a play without a plot. When struggle ends, a mere uneventful chain of events begins.

Why Plot is a Simplification of Life.—Robert Louis Stevenson once advised story-writers in this way:

"As the root of the whole matter let him bear in mind that his novel is not a transcript of life, to be judged by its exactitude; but a simplification of some side or point of life, to stand or fall by its significant simplicity. For al-though, in great men, working upon great motives, what we observe and admire is often their complexity, yet underneath appearances the truth remains unchanged: that simplification was their method, and that simplicity is their excellence."

This applies equally well to the photoplaywright. The real method of every art is simplification. It should be the duty of every photoplaywright to simplify life. He first should select his essentials from the great kaleidoscope of life, then arrange them in an exact, detailed manner. In evolving a plot, the photoplaywright should select only those events having a close relation to every other, and arrange them in a certain pattern according to cause and effect.

The Importance of Unity and Motive.—Every good photoplay is a unit. Unity is a prime structural necessity in the photoplay as it is in any work of art. And the only way unity can be secured is by forming a definite idea of just what is to be accomplished and the determined focusing of attention on its accomplishment. You should exclude from your thoughts all things not pertaining directly or indirectly to the end you have in view.

Since it is the aim of the photoplaywright to portray a series of events closely related to each other, it is easily seen that he cannot do this unless all extraneous matter is eliminated. For this reason, it is wise for the writer to select a motive—a good reason for the different things happening in his play. To use the words of Stevenson again: "Let him (the writer) choose a motive, whether of character or passion; carefully construct his plot so that every incident is an illustration of the motive, and each property employed shall bear to it a near relation of congruity or contrast;-and allow neither himself in the narrative nor any character in the course of the dialogue, to utter one sentence that is not part and parcel of the business of the story or a discussion of the problem involved. Let him not regret if this shortens his book; it will be better so; for to add irrelevant matter is not to lengthen but to bury. Let him not mind if he loses a thousand qualities, so that he keeps unflaggedly in pursuit of the one he has chosen."

Stevenson had story writing in mind when he penned the above; his words apply equally well, however, to the photoplay writer. In every photoplay there must be a good reason for every act. Any situation without an underlying motive is valueless. Writers often overlook this. They frequently al-low their characters to meet in various places and under certain desired conditions without showing any good reason why they should be there. In other words, many events in their plays just "happen" for the author's convenience in developing his plot.

For example: Two characters plot in secret conversation. A third character, while passing, overhears their plans. This would work out all right providing there was a reason why that third character happened along when he did—providing there was a motive back of it all. Without the motive, the whole business becomes mere absurdity.

So no one of your characters should perform any important act unless there is a motive back of it. Of course, it is much easier to let characters "do things" without motive; but plots developed in such a lazy manner seem too artificial. And the minute you adopt this easy-going style of writing, you cease to interest—you even become offensive to ordinary intelligence. To be convincing and satisfying, your entire story must be dominated by a powerful motive. If there is a motive, cause and effect will take care of itself; without motive, your characters will lose themselves in a maze of absurdity.

Why Structures Are Important—But no matter in what manner you work you will find that most good manuscripts are completed before they are written; they are completely worked out in the author's mind before he sets them down on paper. This explains why, when viewing a good photoplay, we always feel as though the author is taking us to a definite place, that we are "getting somewhere." Of course, it is impossible for us to foresee the ending, still we know in our heart all the while that the author has carefully planned just what the ending will be. This conviction produces deep interest on the part of the audience.

Why are photoplays so popular? Find your answer by looking at life itself. What is life? Not a great deal more than a jumble of events leading "every which way." Life is usually a mix-up. It lacks a neat pattern. It does not proceed in an orderly, processional manner. The average per son thinks that some wizard, or God, alone can understand the future. In seeing a good photoplay, however, the average individual is always satisfied that the author knows what is going to happen next, that he knows what to-morrow will bring forth, that he thoroughly understands the direction in which everything is progressing; he seems to know all. Hence, he makes life interesting because he makes it orderly, systematic, understandable. He accomplishes this in no small degree by his constructive ability.

The Simplest Form of Plot.—The most elementary plot possible would be one in which a series of events proceeded without interruption along a single strand of causation. Here, the first event would be the cause of the second, the second the cause of the third, and so on to the culmination of the series. This simple form of plot is frequently employed in Boccaccio's "Decameron." This style of plot certainly is logical; but such a style would never do for most photoplays because it is too childish. In fact, such a plot would not, in a large sense, be a real interpretation of life—and the portrayal of real life is the aim of the photoplay. It would not portray life because it would not show the definite shifts from one event to another It would fail to exhibit the complications of real life. In other words, a simple plot like this is too straightforward to be interesting. It is too regular. It lacks suspense.

An Easy Way to Create Interest and Suspense.—The easiest way to make your plot interesting and more interpretative of real life is to introduce negative elements—to usher in events tending to retard progress and make it difficult for the characters to accomplish their desired aims. In doing this, you not only create suspense and make your plot more interesting, but you also emphasize the ultimate victory. These negative and hindering elements are not extraneous; they hinder the progress of events, but they also help matters along through their failure to stop them.

The events in a well-constructed plot may, consequently, be roughly divided into two classes: direct, or positive; in-direct, or negative. By a direct event is meant one helping the progress of the plot toward the climax. By an indirect event is meant one tending to arrest progress.

Life is made up of conflict and victory. So by introducing elements tending to retard temporarily the progress of your plot, you portray life as it actually is.

Half the charm of a good photoplay lies in not knowing what is going to happen next. If the people of an audience know how your play is going to end, they are no longer interested. This state of suspense—uncertainty, anxiety, or expectation—should be kept in mind all the while you are developing your plot. Introduce unexpected "twists," little surprises, minor climaxes, so that the audience will be kept in a constant state of uncertainty.

In your desire to create suspense, do not introduce into the first part of your plot events likely to mislead the audience into thinking that they have bearing on the ultimate climax, when they have absolutely no relation to it. On the contrary, the little events all through your play should indicate, in a vague way, how it might end; but, as previously stated, you must not let the audience "see through" your story. There is a vast difference between being prepared for an event and anticipating it.

Always remember that suspense is an indispensable element in photoplay writing. If you use it properly, you will find it a most valuable asset in writing salable manuscripts.

How to Complicate a Plot.—The simplest form of plot is the weaving together of two separate series of events. The simplest way to weave a series together is to join them in a common culmination—even though they be widely separated at their beginnings. This common culmination, or climax, might aptly be termed the major knot.

For example, consider "Silas Marner." Here the culmin. ating event is the redemption of Silas from his aloofness from life. This is accomplished by the influence of a child; it is led up to by two separate series of events. One series begins with an injustice done Silas when a youth; the other series begins with the secret marriage of Godfrey Cass. The beginning of each series has no connection with the other; but, in spite of all, each approaches nearer and nearer until they unite and form a climax, or major knot.

The above is not an elaborate plot—it contains only two strands, or lines of causation, while it is possible and permissible for the author to approach his culmination through three or more separate strands. Witness Sydney Carton's death in "A Tale of Two Cities." This is the culmination of several strands of causation. The author may complicate matters still further by tying the various strands at points other than the culmination. Watch Spakespeare. In "The Merchant of Venice," the culmination, climax, or major knot, takes place in the trial scene, wherein Shylock is outwitted by Portia. The strands are also tied together loosely in the play's very beginning when Antonio borrows from Shylock.

Also, an event in the main series may become the culmination of, a minor series, thus forming a sub-plot. Refer-ring to "The Merchant of Venice" again: The elopement of Jessica and Lorenzo—a subplot—culminates in a scene occurring midway between the beginning of the main strand (this begins with the signing of the bond) and the grand climax—the defeat of Shylock.

All About the Major Knot.—No matter how complex your plot may be, it is bound to reach a point where one big event stands as the climax of all events. This is the major knot tying all strands together. In most plots, the photoplay aims to show the reader how this major knot came into being —how it was tied. This is not enough, however, to satisfy the public completely. They must know how events readjust themselves; how the major knot becomes untied. Therefore, the major knot, or the point of greatest complication, must not come at the end of your play. Instead, it should appear about three quarters of the way through your story. Consequently, the first three quarters of your play should show what leads up to the major knot, and the last quarter should disclose how events adjust themselves. Therefore, a plot consists of certain conditions leading up to a complication, which, in turn, is followed by an explication—a tying followed by an untying.

The Three Elements of Plot.—Aristotle said that each plot must have "a beginning, a middle, and an end." He did not mean that each plot may be cut into three equal parts. What he termed the "middle" is likely to appear very near the end of the average photoplay. It is not likely to be in the center. But everything that follows is, and was considered by Aristotle, the "end," and everything that precedes, the "beginning."

The elements of plot are three in number, then: the complication, or beginning; the climax, major knot, or "middle"; and the explication, "end," or final untying of the major knot.

1. The Complication, or Beginning.—When photoplay writing was young, editors were content to feature material with a big climax or an inspiring ending, and were satisfied to allow the author to lead up to this climax in a more or less slow, uninteresting manner. This is not possible to-day. Now the author is expected to "start something" at the very opening of his production. The interest of the spectator must be captured at the very outset; hence, the action of the play should not begin with a slow, casual introduction of the characters; should not picture a multitude of commonplace and ordinary incidents leading up to the climax. You must begin your play immediately with action. Certainly a stirring climax is worthy of an interesting introduction.

Begin your play in a natural manner. Do not make the condition of events at the opening seem artificial. Don't take things for granted. You must not grab your characters out of the air and say such-and-such conditions exist. Tell why and how those conditions came about.

Make your beginning interesting. Many otherwise good productions are ruined because their opening is so tiresome and uninteresting that, by the time the spectator reaches a worth-while portion of the plot he is asleep, disgusted—and in no condition to judge fairly the merit of the balance of the play —or has left the theater. The best way to make your beginning interesting is to eliminate all extraneous matter and promptly "get down to business."

The beginning of a play should be fresh, new, different. Make the first scene tell something of the story; make all of your explanation in action.

Start your play v-i-v-i-d-l-y-the word needs emphasis. Let everything be bright, intense, active, gripping—possessive of all the qualities of vigorous life. Make your opening of vital concern to the audience.

2. The Climax, or Major Knot—While writing your play, carefully watch the climax itself, for it is the final climax to which we are constantly advancing. And it is the climax for which the audience should be breathlessly waiting. Situation follows situation, suspense constantly grows, events become more and more involved until the solution seems impossible—misfortune seems bound to engulf our players. Then light appears. The "big scene" takes place; the climax is reached. Our curiosity is gratified.

But wait! The characters can't be left "in the air."' True, the knot has been cut, but we are not satisfied. Does the hero marry the girl? Are those estranged lovers united? Is the schemer punished? This must be made clear, or the audience will leave the theater and say, "It was a good play, but had a peculiar ending." There is where Aristotle's "end" fits in nicely.

3. The Explication, or End.—The third element of plot is the untying of the major knot. Usually the play ends in short order after the climax. The characters quickly adjust all of their affairs and bid the audience a hasty "good-by." In one of O. Henry's stories, however, the value of the work rests in the explication. The story opens with a young married couple sitting in their home. Love is everywhere. The bride voices a wish, a fervent desire. It is early spring but she wants a peach. So the husband starts out to find one. He sees a lot of oranges everywhere, but peaches are mighty scarce. In fact, they are nowhere to be found. Still he has hope. He knows of a certain gambling establishment, wherein the proprietor makes a hobby of serving to his patrons all the delicacies the world affords. So the hero organizes a raid on the place, breaks in, and quickly makes for the culinary department. With great joy he grasps one lone peach. His is the pride of an Alexander as he places the coveted fruit in the hands of his beloved wife. What's that the bride says? "I don't know but what I would just as soon have had an orange."

In writing the ending to your plot, try, without being grotesque, to break away from the commonplace. Conclude your plot in as unexpected a manner as possible.

Why the Ending Must Satisfy.—It is hardly necessary to say that the photoplaywright must interest his audience. He has another duty, however; he must satisfy them. This the explication does. It is a fine thing to write a gripping plot, making it intensely interesting up to the ending; but, in that last scene, you must untangle the knot you have tied, you must satisfy the audience, you must make them feel that everything has ended in a pleasant, gratifying manner. You don't want them to go away displeased.

It is not only important that you explain what happens to the characters, but also that you show why things happen as they do. The average person knows there must be a reason for everything. He will give your play a fair chance. He will sit patiently through your plot even if it is rather dull, and, in the end, be satisfied if you only show him before you are through that there is a reason for all that has gone before.

If your story contains any kind of a mystery, do not allow the audience to guess the solution. Their interest depends on suspense and doubt; but a natural ending is necessary. Every-thing must be made clear and satisfying. Many otherwise excellent manuscripts have been rejected simply because they ended in an unsatisfactory manner. The plot may begin in a very pleasing way; the complications and situations may be truly interesting and entertaining; but, somehow, the story fails at the end. In other words, the explication is not satisfying.

You will realize how important the explication of a manuscript is when you know that the public demands a happy ending. No matter how artistic it may seem to end your work tragically, I advise you not to do it. The public wants real life as it actually is, except in this one particular. Even though the happy ending is somewhat inconsistent, it still is demanded ; and if you hope to sell your work you had better confine yourself to the happy ending.

Where to Begin a Photoplay.—After you have gathered together all the material you intend to use in your plot, you then must decide where to begin. Here you enjoy the utmost liberty; you are guided only by your own desires and inclinations. You may start at the actual beginning of your plot; or you may follow the plan often used by Horace, of beginning in the middle and working backward toward the beginning. For it is plain that, as long as the photoplaywright presents the events of his plot in logical sequence, it is not absolutely necessary to introduce them in chronological order. A photo-play may be told backward as well as forward. This is the device necessarily used in detective and mystery stories. Here, the writer begins with a major knot and works backward—unraveling as he goes—though his events still follow in logical sequence.

In some plays, the writer opens with the main character well advanced in years; then the action reverts to former years by way of explanation. In fact, retrogression in time is often absolutely necessary. It is better, however, for the new writer to make the events of his plot follow each other not only in logical sequence but also in chronological succession.

Tying and Untying Knots.—The complication and the major climax of a plot usually are far more interesting than the ending. That is, the causes leading up to an important event in a person's life, and the event itself, are more entertaining than the readjustment. This is the reason why the culmination of a photoplay should he placed well toward the end. Often, however, the knot in a play is cut at the very end—producing a great surprise often—but there really is no dried-and-cut reason why the climax should come far toward the end, because frequently the adjustment following the main complication is very entertaining. In fact in many stories, the main complication arises at the beginning and the photoplay itself deals with an elaborate explication. Thus it is in detective stories. Here a knot is tied with Gordian intricacy at the very beginning; the play itself exploits the prowess of the detective in untying the knot.

How to Find Plots.-Some beginners have an idea that all ,the available plot material has been used. They are very wrong in this. Look at O. Henry. His stories will live forever. He will always touch a responsive chord in the hearts and minds of fiction lovers everywhere. Why? Simply because he saw interesting stories everywhere, good ideas in everything. Suppose he had said to himself : "It's useless for me to try to write. The plots have all been used up. There is nothing new I can say. Shakespeare said all." Had he done this the world would have lost scores of the best short stories ever written. True, practically every subject has been written about; thousands of plays have been produced; but thousands more will come to life upon the screen after present-day writers have unraveled their life's plot and have passed "out of the picture." Decades from now, authors will be turning out play after play in ever-increasing numbers; and, even though the basic themes of their work are, in a sense, old, they will be treated in a new way, so that they will seem new and fresh to the average playgoer. Life itself is world-old, yet all of us live life differently, no two alike.

There are stories everywhere. The world is full of plots. Life is so burdened with plot material that the really earnest writer should be more concerned in deciding what he shall use than where he shall find it. No matter where or in what circumstances you live, there are innumerable plots all about you waiting to be utilized. All of your friends are living plots; your neighbors also; your family even. There is a story in every street, 'round every corner, in every city, in every country. Find them! Don't dream of things or conditions about which you are unfamiliar. Instead, look around in your every-day life for material. You will find plenty of things to write about.

There is no limit to the places from which you can gather ideas; no limit except that prescribed by your own observation and your own knowledge of life. Study humanity; watch people; be observant. The lives of people will furnish you with ideas—and surely there are enough different types of people to supply millions of plots. No two people are just alike; they can't be; their circumstances and the things going to make up their lives are varied. So that most of their struggles, their joys and sorrows, their hopes and fears, form a wonderful field for you to work on. Every passing minute has its story, every breath of life its plot. You can find them if you will.

Look at the world sympathetically. Study people, actions, motives. You will be surprised at the great wealth of material that will quickly unfold before you.

Why You Must Have a Definite Objective.—Unity in the photoplay is just as essential as it is in the novel; and the only way in which a writer may obtain unity is to maintain a definite objective point, to keep constantly in mind the culmination of his series of events, and not utilize any incidents or situations not helping to bring the action to a climax. In other words, a writer must have the end of his story in mind before he begins. He must make the audience feel that he knows just where he is leading them. They must have a sense of progressing toward the desired end. Before an author actually starts to write his play, it must be entirely worked out in his own mind. He must know quite definitely just what is going to happen and what will not be included in the action of his plot. He must not try to make up his story as he goes along—the favorite pastime of many beginners.

If a writer fails to keep the climax of his play in mind, he will not be able to decide, when writing his manuscript, whether this or that event does, or does not, belong in the series leading to the major knot. The result will probably be a jumble of events leading nowhere.

How to Build a Plot.—As previously stated, there can be no plot unless there are complications, or, as sometimes termed, situations. A situation is a temporary combination of conditions or state of affairs—usually not pleasant, generally unfortunate for the time being. As a rule, the average plot consists of a number of situations of minor importance, all leading up to, and culminating in, the major climax. As soon as a writer is able to work out an interesting situation for his main characters, he has the beginning of a plot; then it is not such a difficult matter to complete the story.

As previously outlined, there are three elements of plot: complication, climax, ending. To build a plot in an easy way, begin with the climax or major knot; think of an appealing predicament for your main character; then build your story backward to the beginning, and onward to the end.

Of course, people with synthetic minds naturally reason from cause to effect. Analytic minds, on the other hand, tend to reason from effect to cause. In evolving a plot, therefore, it is quite likely that the former intellect would construct forward through time ; the latter, backward. If you place yourself at a certain beginning, it is easy to imagine forward along a certain series of events leading to a climax, then to an ending; or, beginning at the climax, it may be just as easy, or perhaps easier, to imagine backward to the various causes, or events, which brought about the major knot. In other words, most writers build their plots in either one of two ways: from cause to effect, from beginning to end; or from effect to cause, from climax to beginning.

If you will take your climax, analyze it, pick out possible reasons why the characters are in their predicament, then find the solution for their trouble—working out all of their difficulties, or untying the knot, as it were—you have your entire plot. In this way, you quickly construct a logical chain of events advancing to an interesting climax and ending in a satisfactory solution. You can readily see that, in developing your plot in this manner, you will unconsciously be logical; your work will be a perfect unit.

After you have worked your plot out in this manner, go back to the beginning. Rehearse everything completely from start to finish. Thus you will be sure to eliminate contradictory elements, or illogical situations, either of which may have crept into your work.

This easy method of plot building has been outlined for the reason that it will greatly simplify your work. It is not necessary for you, however, to develop your plot in this manner. There are no hard and fast rules. Methods vary with individual temperaments. You may discover a new method yourself. At any rate, it is safe to say that your own method, no matter what it is, will seem the most logical to you; for, after all, it is a question which each writer must work out for himself. Most successful writers have found, however, that they must know the general course of their play—and above all know the end—before they can begin.

You might make Euclid your model. He outlines his plot, then immediately starts to develop it, carefully weeding out all incidents not directly relating to the climax. He always keeps his eyes on the end he has in view. And, the minute he reaches the culmination, he stops.

Some Suggestions Relating. to Plot Development.—The beginner is advised to develop his plot in the analytic manner—from effect to cause, from climax to beginning. He will be more apt to eliminate the extraneous, in reasoning from effect to cause, than in working from cause to effect. Futhermore, in building analytically, he is more apt to produce a perfect unit than if working in the synthetic manner.

Fully ninety-nine out of every hundred manuscripts are rejected because they lack a strong plot. Most writers fail because they really have nothing to write about. The great, crying need of the average script is plot, plot, plot. This statement cannot be over-emphasized.

In developing your plot, keep an elastic mind. Don't take certain fixed situations and try to adhere closely to them. See if it is not possible to alter your series of events and forge into new channels of thought. If you do this, you may be surprised at the great number of ideas which will readily present themselves.

After you have completed your plot, do not immediately start to write your synopsis. Don't hurry. Take plenty of time. Lay your work aside for a week or two. Forget about it. Write more plots. Then, after your first ideas have become rather vague in your mind, go over them again. The chances are ten to one that you will find many flaws and inconsistencies in their development. These you can easily remedy and greatly increase the value of your work.

"Eternal Three."—The plots of stories often deal with only one character. Hawthorne's "Wakefield" concerns itself with the analysis of the character of a certain gentleman who decided not to go home one night. Instead, he lodged in another street; and, as a result, stayed away from home for twenty years. Other stories, like "Silas Marner," involve two main characters. Most photoplays, however, deal with three leading people. This three-cornered relationship has often been termed "eternal triangle," "dramatic triad," and so on. In this treatise it will be called the Eternal Three.

While it is possible to write photoplays concerning only two characters--or even one, for that matter—it is not a desirable thing for the beginner to attempt. This is true because, in dealing with one or two characters, it is difficult to get sufficient action and strong complications. It is far easier to precipitate swift complication when there are three characters. Here the attitude of two characters toward the third immediately precipitates action. For example, see how easy it is to inject complications into this three-cornered plot from Miss Wilkins' "New England Nun."

Louisa Ellis, an "old maid," is quietly seated in her little home one afternoon. Her betrothed lover, Joe Daggett, calls. They have been engaged for fifteen years, during which time Joe has been seeking his fortune in Australia. Both have been faithful; but, now that the wedding day is drawing near, both are apprehensive. Louisa Ellis dreads the marriage, but does not dare tell Joe. He has realized, too, that the love between them has vanished—in fact, he has fallen in love with a young woman, Lily Dyer. But he is faithful to Louisa. Here is a real knot. Miss Wilkins unravels it easily in this manner. Louisa, while strolling down a road one moonlight night, unintentionally hears Joe and Lily talking. She hears them say they think it wrong and unjust for Joe to break his engagement with Louisa. Having heard this, Louisa breaks the engagement herself. This completely unties the knot; the solution is simple and natural.

The elements of these three-cornered plots present a very fascinating problem to the photoplaywright. The characters may be two men and one woman, or two women and one man. Such a triangular relationship inevitably brings up consuming passion, fear, jealousy, surprise, anger, remorse even—all of which are right at the playwright's finger tips when he uses the "eternal three."

You may think at first glance that the eternal triangle does not exist in many stories. Perhaps the story may deal with only one character. If you will analyze the situations closely, however, you may find that the three-cornered plot is there even though we only have one character. That character may be struggling against opposition of some sort to gain wealth. Here the triangle is: character, opposition, wealth, He may be struggling against poverty for fame. Here it is: character, poverty, fame. But what is more common he may have a sweetheart. The girl he loves and a third per-son in the form of a rival or an objecting parent, completes the ordinary triangle. There are any number of three-cornered arrangements; in fact, it is rare indeed that a plot is built without the three-leaved relationship.

Therefore, the best thing for the new writer to do when beginning his plot is to locate a definite set of characters —a trio, preferably; then put them in a predicament. It is not necessary to rack your brain to find things for them to do. Look around in your own life, in your own experiences, and in the lives and experiences of your friends. You will find plenty of situations. You read stories, you read magazines, you read newspapers; therefore, it ought to be a simple matter for you to find any number of intense situations for your characters.

Why Real Life is Not Always Good Plot Material. —Not all things in real life are suitable plot material. They may lack dramatic qualities, they may be trite and commonplace, or they may be so out of the ordinary that it would be impossible to make them convincing on the screen. Many writers imagine that, if something actually happens in life, it ought to make a fine plot. Not so. There have been instances where mothers have injured their children, but it would not be wise to write a photoplay on such a subject; it would be practically impossible to convince the average person that it was true to life, because of the fact that it is so out of the ordinary. Therefore, you will have to use care in selecting plots from real life.

R. G. Moulton says: "It may be said boldly that fiction is truer than fact. Half the difference of opinion on the whole subject rests upon a mental confusion between two things, fact, and truth—fact, the mass of particular and individual details; truth, that is of general and universal import —fact, the raw material; truth, the finished article into which it is to be made up, with hundreds of chances of flaws in the working."

"Prefer an impossibility which seems probable to a probability which seems impossible." Aristotle.

How to Study and Analyze Other Photoplays.—If you will study other plots you will be amply repaid. You will be surprised at the great good this will do you. Read other people's stories; see their plays. Watch how they build plots. Then invent situations and complications of your own. This will unconsciously teach you to cultivate a creative attitude and is bound to make you a better writer.

When watching a photoplay, mentally tear it apart. Turn the situations inside-out. By doing this you will learn to invent plots yourself.

The average picture-goer fails to analyze the photoplay he sees. He goes to the theater to be entertained. Of course, he carefully watches the play on the screen. But, when it is all over, the chances are that he doesn't know why he likes it, if he does. It pleases him, that's all. On the other hand, if he told you a certain picture appearing in your city wasn't good, he probably couldn't tell you exactly why. He might attempt to advance a reason, but probably couldn't give an adequate one.

Hereafter, when you go to the theater, watch every play carefully. Note every action, every expression, every scene, every scenic effect. Examine the situations, dissect the play completely, see if you can find defects in it. Don't be unreasonable, but try to develop a critical attitude. Cultivate that attitude in every way possible.

Watch everything with a clear eye. By so doing, the play you see will cause a great many germ-plots to suggest them-selves to you. These bare ideas can easily be enlarged upon and used as main situations in your own work. It is safe to say that the average successful writer has thought of many plots when viewing other productions.

Don't go to see any particular class of pictures. It is impossible for you to witness everything, but you can try to see a variety of material. This will greatly help to give you a variety of ideas.

Remember this. When you see a picture on the screen,, you are viewing something which has been approved, probably written by a successful writer or a well-known director. Try to find, then, why the play is successful; why the studio liked it; in what particulars it differed from your work. Keep an open mind. This may be difficult to do, but it will repay you a thousand ways.

Why You Should Keep Well Informed.—The successful photoplay writer must keep himself well informed. He must know what the other fellow is doing and what is being produced. He must understand thoroughly the different requirements of all studios and know in a very comprehensive manner what type of material each of them is buying. Read newspapers carefully. Study magazines. You will be astonished at the great number of plots you will find in the events daily transpiring all over the world.

Besides closely watching what the "other fellow" puts into his picture, try to find incidents which he could have utilized in his work, yet failed to. Few writers make the best use of the material they have in hand. They often overlook a lot of good ideas, which you probably can use in some of your photoplays. Also note, in a general way, the amount of reading matter the author shows on the screen, the average length of his scenes, the number of close-ups he employs, and so on, remembering, above all, that, even though you may be able to find defects in his work, there was enough good in it to warrant its being produced.

A Way to Make Plot Gathering Easy.—Some writers overflow with ideas for plots. To them, plot-building seems a matter of instinct. They are born story-tellers. They find it the easiest matter in the world to think of any number of excellent ideas. As Bliss Perry nicely observes: "For these natural spinners of the yarn, to whom invention is the most easy, the most fascinating, the most captivating of gifts —for a Stevenson, a Scott, a Dumas--to block out the plot of a story is a mere bagatelle." With the average person, how-ever, it is a far different matter. He has to do a lot of hard thinking to work out something satisfactory.

You can greatly simplify your plot troubles, and make the problem of finding suitable plots an easy one, if you will acquire the note-book habit. Never be without a note-book. Whenever you think of a new idea—any kind of a suggestion which you may be able to use in any way—write it down. Don't let it fly by just because you have no immediate use for it. Jot it down anyway; then, at some later date when you are in need of material, you will run across it and be deeply grateful that you did write it down. And remember that no writer in the world glances around and finds a plot already worked out for him. They all begin with simple ideas and carefully work them out into finished productions. So don't wait for ideas to come to you. They won't step up, tap you on the shoulder, and say, "I'm a plot." You have to find them hiding around the corner, and bring them out into the light.

Maybe you are the type of writer who thinks of ideas easiest when your mind is busy—when you are working on one of your other productions. Anyway you will find that ideas come more readily at certain times. Many writers have found that they can think of ten times as many good ideas after they lie down for the night. If this is the case with you, keep your note-book handy.

Do not think for one minute that this note-book suggestion is mere theory or sheer waste of time. If beginners some-times imagine this, it is because they do not understand the importance of system in writing. System is just as essential to your success as it is to any business man or professional. So don't scorn the note-book habit and be the loser.

How to Gather Ideas from Other People's Plots Without Imitating.—Few writers, indeed, intentionally apprehend any part of another person's writing and use it as their own. And it is not the purpose of this chapter to give anyone the idea that they should utilize other people's ideas in this manner. The author of this book despises such methods. Therefore, the first thing to be said is, do not rehash other people's ideas and pass them out as your own. You won't get far if you do. The photoplaywright, if he is to be anything, must be his own thinker.

But, though you must not take other people's ideas, it nevertheless is true that the plots of other writers will cause ideas of your own to suggest themselves, and you would be very foolish if you failed to make use of these new ideas simply because you thought they might have some connection with the other .story. By studying other people's work, your own imagination is stimulated; and you must not fail to use the ideas brought to your mind in this manner. Of course, when you take ideas from the newspapers, there is no possibility of purloining another's brain. The accounts in the papers are just as much yours as anybody's. Although they are written by certain correspondents, still they are merely an account of events. They are public property, often of great dramatic value. (This does not apply to articles, stories, small fillers, and the like, in newspapers.) But you should not take a plot bodily from the papers. Not that it belongs to anyone in particular, but if it is good, the chances are that ten thousand would-be writers have done the same thing—maybe sooner than you. Therefore, use newspaper incidents merely as a basis for a plot, and work out the chain of situations in your own way. Then your finished manuscript will be different. In other words, use the newspapers as a stimulant for your own imagination.

Use great care in utilizing plots gathered from other people's work, not only for your own safety, but because of the fact that, if you try to adopt another's ideas bodily, the chances are that many unscrupulous writers will "beat you to it." In other words, use only the bare idea you gather from other people's writing. In this way you can reshape them and surround them with new incidents in such a manner that no one would recognize them as having sprung from any particular source. Such plots truly will be all your own. This is not only the safest way, but the only sensible way to write; for, if you adopt other people's ideas bodily, you never will sell a manuscript. Your work will be so like other writers' productions, already filmed, that no editor will buy from you.

The copyright law provides a penalty of $100 for every exhibition of a photoplay based on a copyrighted story or play, provided the owner of the copyright has not granted permission to use his work. So it becomes pretty expensive to use another's ideas.

But suppose you take another person's plot and made a play out of it, and even succeeded in selling it. Suppose again, that it was produced at a cost of several thousand dollars. After going to this great expense, the producer puts the play on the market; and, after it has appeared several times, the original writer learns you have stolen his work. Can you imagine what would happen? Can't you see how many thousands of dollars it would cost the producer to settle the case? Not only that, but you probably would never be able to sell another manuscript to any other company. They would keep you well in mind. You would be persona non grata at every studio.

Why Your Reading Should Be Well-Balanced.—Don't confine yourself to the reading of newspapers and fiction. A comprehensive knowledge of fiction and all current events is of great importance, but you should also be familiar with the better books of philosophy, history, science, and education. In fact, in order to make yourself a well-balanced, broad-minded writer, you must gain a general knowledge of all writing. And from this extensive reading, you will constantly gather facts and situations, complications and predicaments, all of which you will, at one time or another, be able to develop into cashable ideas. Almost everything you see or read is of value. It ought to serve either one of two purposes; suggest a new plot to you, or suggest a better way to complete some idea only partially worked out.

Some Material is Worthless.—A great many beginners read of some sensational trial in the courts and immediately conclude that it will make a wonderful story. They copy the entire trial incident for incident, sometimes even to actual names. The result is a hopelessly unsalable play. These writers make the mistake of copying a story from the news-paper, instead of getting a basic idea from the real event and working it out in their own way. Newspapers and other people's stories will not aid the writer who lacks inventive ability. They serve merely as sign-posts to show the wise writer where he can find inspiration. It is not what you read in the papers that counts, but in what manner the reading excites your imagination.

Row often the writer is approached by a friend who says, "I've a great idea for you." Usually, the only consideration which should be granted this "great idea" is respect for the aged. Do not make the mistake of writing about the plots your friends give you. Think for yourself. Don't refuse friendly suggestion; listen to what people have to say. You may, once in a lifetime, get a fine suggestion in this manner. As a rule, however, the ideas given away are not worth accepting; people with worth while ideas aren't peddling them.

Therefore, in gathering ideas from other people's plots, be very careful to use incidents here and there, and let them serve as a stimulant for your own imagination, so that you are really and truly able to work out a finished manuscript all your own.

In short, don't worry about where you get your ideas just so you get them honestly.

Writing: The Synopsis

Why the Synopsis is of Paramount Importance.--The photoplay synopsis tells the story of your plot in de-tailed narrative form, generally without the use of- dialogue or useless description; consequently, it is a general view of your story, an abstract or summary of the action.

Not including plot, the synopsis is the most important part of a photoplay. The truth of this statement becomes evident when you remember that, in submitting a photoplay for sale, you send to the editor only a detailed synopsis of your plot and a cast of characters. The continuity, or scenario, is not submitted unless the company to whom you are sending your work specifically gives notice of the fact that they want it included. Fully ninety per cent. of all producing companies have publicly announced that they do NOT want to consider anything but the synopsis. Therefore, when submitting your work for sale, send only the first and second parts of the complete photoplay script. This is all an editor cares to see. If your work is accepted, the continuity will be written in the studio by the producing company's own staff of writers. Rarely, indeed, is work handled in any other manner. And, since your work is either accepted or refused practically on the merit of the synopsis alone, the latter's importance is readily apparent.

Some writers will conclude from the above that an extensive knowledge of continuity writing is not necessary. And they are right. The free-lance writer can sell scripts as fast as he can write them without being an expert in the writing of continuity. But—and this is important—you must have a general knowledge of continuity writing; otherwise, you will be apt to develop many of your plots in such a manner that they will not be salable.

How to Write the Synopsis. Writing a good synopsis, while of paramount importance, is not a difficult matter. You merely present, in regular prose, a crisp, clear, complete outline of your plot—an outline of all the action of your play. Omit all conversation and useless word-pictures. Tell your plot in just as few words as possible. Tell everything, but do not waste words or time in the telling. Leave out all jokes or witty sayings. Don't try to be funny, brilliant, or clever. Be businesslike, for all the editor wants is a comprehensive knowledge of your ;plot. Remember, too, that editors are busy men. Be brief. To know how to condense judiciously, to extract all the juice, without any of the rind or pulp, is just as important to the photoplaywright as is a knowledge of anatomy to the painter.

Do Not Be Too Brief.—But, in cultivating brevity, do not omit parts of your story. Don't say, "While in France, Frank goes through many exciting experiences." You must tell more than that; you must relate briefly the action involved in these "exciting experiences." You are not writing a synopsis when you say, "Frank triumphs over his enemy in a clever manner." Tell how and in what manner he triumphed. In other words, you must describe all the action in your plot—all of the main events—but you must do it in a brief way. So be careful to strike out all repetition and superfluous adjectives and knit long sentences into brief ones.

Write Your Synopsis in a Plain Manner.—A fine literary style is not required to write a synopsis. Simple, common, everyday words are all you need. Many photoplay editors are ordinary people and might not appreciate a fine style anyway. Even more, well-turned phrases are not required. This does not mean that incorrect sentences or misspelled words will be tolerated. Not for a minute. Crude manuscripts receive slight consideration, for most editors take it for granted that they are the work of an illiterate, in-capable of producing worth while ideas. Many excellent photoplays have never found the light, simply because the synopsis was carelessly written.

Use the Present Tense.—Write your entire synopsis in the present tense. Don't say, "Helen made her debut at the Society Ball, and instantly became the center of attraction." Say, "Helen makes her debut at the Society Hall, and instantly becomes the center of attraction." Keep to the present tense all the way through. This is one of the most important things to remember.

A Model Photoplay Synopsis.—Below we reproduce a model photoplay synopsis from the story, "Tol'able David," by one of America's foremost writers, Mr. Joseph Hergesheimer, author of "The Lay Anthony," "Mountain Blood," "Cytherea," and numerous other stories. The following de-tailed synopsis of Mr. Hergesheimer's story, which was published in The Saturday Evening Post, is reproduced with the kind permission of Inspiration Pictures, Inc., who own the film rights to this story, and under whose management Mr. Richard Barthelmess, hero of "Tol'able David," is being starred. This model synopsis is the exact form in which all of your photoplays should be written and submitted for sale.

TOL'ABLE DAVID

Lying in the peaceful valley behind three ranges of mountains, is the little hamlet of 'Coldstream. In this place lives the family of Hunter Kinemon, consisting of his wife and their two sons, Allen and David, as well as Allen's wife. It is a family that lives in peace with all mankind. Night finds the father wearied from caring for the farm of Senator Gault, politician, postmaster, and storekeeper; and Allen from driving the mail coach twenty miles each way from the little village to the railroad terminus. David still in the adolescent age of seventeen, but ambitious to appear grown up and fulfill his one desire of succeeding his brother as the driver of the mail coach, is still the baby of the mountaineer mother. To her he is just "tol'able."

The morning breaks beautiful and finds the Kinemon family up early, Allen, assisted by David, doing the chores about the barn. Allen is serious this day because Rose, his young wife, is ill and an important event is expected. David, left alone in the barn, can not resist the temptation to take a plunge in the swimming hole and sport about in the water, while his ever constant dog, Rocket, watches over him. Rocket, though, is mischievously inclined, and makes way with David's trousers. Clad only in his shirt, David pursues his companion, who refuses to stop when commanded.

David is obliged to stop abruptly and seek refuge in a shed, because tripping across the fields towards his house comes Esther Hatburn, his youthful sweetheart, who lives with her grandfather, another peacefully inclined and God-fearing man. Esther is on her way to David's home to borrow some sugar. She wonders what is keeping David hiding in the barn shed door. The sight of David trying to rescue his trousers from his dog makes her surmise what the trouble is.

Allen, counted the strongest man in the county, does not want to leave his wife this day, but duty calls him and he, as well as David, has been impressed with the fact that the United States mail is sacred and must be guarded, if necessary, with his life. David's offer to take Allen's place is treated as a huge joke by the big brother whom David worships. Ever being reminded that he is still a boy, David smarts under this taunting.

But the day that began so beautifully has its cloud which sweeps down upon this peaceful place like the wrath of an avenging storm. It comes in the person of Iscah Hatburn and his two sons, Luke and Saul. No trio was ever so base, so cruel, so lacking in everything that goes to make up men. Escaping from jail, they have been driven from a neighboring state. Luke, vicious and cruel, would have added murder to his other crimes but for the intervention of his father, who prevents him from killing one of the pursuing posse. Saul, the object of the brutality of his father and older brother, is more concerned with being fed.

Iscah Hatburn recalls that he had a relative in those parts, so the worthless trio force themselves upon Esther's grandfather, who is too much afraid of them to deny them hospitality. Esther trembles when she sees this precocious trio of relatives, and the malignant Luke at once covets the sweet and pretty Esther. They take possession of the house.

David's introduction to the vicious trio is due to Rocket chasing Esther's cat. The noise attracts the outlaws, and, going to the door, they appear before the surprised David. Grabbing his dog, David stands dumbfounded while they order him off the place. The pride of a Kinemon asserts itself and the youthful David is ready to do battle with another Goliath. He is prevailed upon to leave by Esther. Later he and Esther meet while they are driving their cows to pasture. Tearfully, Esther tells David of their unwelcome guests. With the courage of a man, and especially desiring to appear as a man before Esther, David volunteers to face these desperados single-handed. But Esther will not be deceived by David's valor and reminds him that he is only a boy and that they would crush him as they would a piece of cotton.

The expected event arrives in the Kinemon home and Allen, seized by love but also still loyal to his duty, drives the coach as it never was driven before, much to the discomfort of the passengers, who forgive him when informed of the reason. All go into the Kinemon home and true Virginia hospitality is shown them in honor of the event. Here also David's youth prevents him from being considered a part of the toasting party.

Mother Kinemon takes advantage of the presence of the physician to tell him of her fears for her apparently gigantic husband's health. She wants him to see the Doctor concerning his heart. The father laughs at his wife's fears.

Days go by and all is serene in the Kinemon home, David worshipping with all the intensity of his heart the baby who has supplanted him with all except his mother as the baby of the household. Allen continues to drive the stage coach and spends with his young wife and baby as much time as he can spare from his duties.

The shadows that have been slowly gathering are gaining momentum and sorrow is at hand. Father Kinemon, enraged by seeing a cow in the garden, calls upon David to send his dog after the animal. 'David tells his father that Allen has taken the dog with him that day. The anger of the father brings on an attack of the heart and Kinemon is forced to go into the house.

Meanwhile Allen with Rocket on the seat by him, is driving the mail coach. As they pass the Hatburn home, Rocket again espies his feline enemy. Regardless of the fact that the three outlaw Hatburns are in the yard, Saul cracking nuts which his brutal brother is helping himself to, Rocket dashes for his enemy. Leaping to his feet, Luke Hatburn kicks the dog to death. Allen jumps from his mail coach and enters the yard. He sees what has happened. Enraged at the thought of his brother's faithful companion suffering such an end, he wants to at once avenge this brutal killing. Still he remembers he must deliver the United States mail. He warns Luke that he will be back to settle this score after his duty is performed.

He starts to return to the coach. From behind he is felled by a stone hurled by Luke. Prostrated and unable to defend himself, he is trampled upon by the brute, who only stops when he thinks his victim is dead.

Bleeding and unconscious, Allen is brought home. The family suffers its first pain of sorrow. But Father Kinemon tells the passengers they need not tell the Sheriff, that he will attend to the Hatburns. David says to him-self that now he has the chance to show that the Kinemon's can take care of her own. Seizing his father's old muzzle-loading rifle, he drives home the charge. His father, engaged in loading his modern rifle, sees David and tells him he must stay home with his mother.

For once David forgets his filial obligations, and insists that he shall also avenge the brother, who is in the adjoining room being ministered to by the doctor, while Rose, his young wife with her baby in her arms, listens for the word as to whether her husband is to be saved. Stoically she learns that Allen will be maimed for life.

The paroxyms the father undergoes in asserting his parental authority over David results in his dying of heart failure, and David is now the man of the house. He is deaf to his Mother's entreaties and struggles to get to the Hatburns. Only her plea that he now is all that they have to support the house influences him.

The hand of misfortune descends heavily upon the Kinemons. Forced to leave their home because Senator Gault says it requires a man to run the farm, the occasion is made more sorrowful because Esther, out of sympathy, comes to see them off. She is met with hatred on the part of David, who tells her as fiercely as he can that he hates every Hat-burn. Esther, grieving, goes to seek consolation from her grandfather.

In the village David is unhappy. He is denied the job of driving the mail coach on account of his youth. He goes to the Gault store on an errand for his mother and his cup of bitter sorrow is added to when he hears hangers-on about the store intimate that they believe he is a coward because he did not avenge his brother, who, from his couch in the home, bemoans the fact that he is an encumbrance to the family.

Matters are no better in the Hatburn home. Esther's grandfather realizes what Luke's intentions towards Esther mean. The kindly little man will defend his grand-daughter, who, according to the custom of that country, does not eat at the table with the men, but serves them first. Calling his enraged manhood into play at the break-fast table, the grandfather tells Luke that such actions must stop. Luke is only prevented from plunging a butcher knife into his older relative by his father.

The country dance is held that night and Esther insists on her grandfather taking her to the schoolhouse. While she dances with her country swain, David stands outside all dressed up, but not daring to go in. Through the window he longingly watches the girl who has claimed his affections. To escape her partner, who dances on her feet instead of on the floor, Esther goes outside. She encounters David. A reconciliation follows. Their happy rendezvous is discovered by the man who succeeded Allen as driver. He thinks it a great joke. He wants to go into the dance, but is ejected.

David is given a job as clerk in the store. The morning after the dance the driver is late. The passengers, impatient to get away and storming over the delay, appeal to Gault. Gault excitedly looks about for a driver. His own shows up, but too drunk to be trusted.. So David gets the opportunity he has longed for. With his mother proudly watching him, he drives off. He is seen by Esther, whose joy is supreme. The Hatburns also see him. Returning without passengers, David passes Luke on the road. Unknown to David, a mail bag drops out of the coach and Luke sees it and takes it to the Hatburn shack, where he gleefully tells his father and brother that David will have a hard time of it when he shows up with the bag missing.

But David misses the bag. He knows he passed only one person on the road—Luke Hatburn. To prove true to his mission, and suspecting Hatburn of having the bag, he turns back. A sense of his inequality in stature to the three men seizes him. But, gritting his teeth and gripping his revolver, he cautiously approaches the house. Nervously he knocks and then pushes the door open. Esther is in the room, having been prevented from leaving when she discovers the mail bag. David attempts to take the mail. He is shot in the arm by Saul. Esther sees him wounded. She runs from the house, pursued by Luke. She falls in a faint and Luke is over her, his lustful desires being uppermost in his mind.

Saul attempts to shoot David. The latter is too quick and Saul is dead. Iscah bars the door with his body. David demands to be let go, reminding Iscah that he is the mail agent and also a Kinemon. He shoots the father. But the latter in his dying moment hurls a chair which crashes upon David with such force that he is rendered unconscious and the revolver falls out of his grasp. Re-gaining his senses, he realizes that he must get the mail-He struggles to his feet and starts to stagger to the door, when Luke returns. The latter abandoned his intentions when he heard the shots. Follows a desperate struggle between the giant and the boy. Catlike and desperate, careless of his own safety, thinking only of his trust, unmindful of the terrible hurts he is enduring, David fights on and on. He manages to hurl his adversary with such force against the wall that Luke is stunned. David is also prostrate. But while on the floor he sees the revolver. Luke also sees it. It is now life against life.

The scene changes to the exterior of the shack. Weakly the door swings open and David, blood from head to foot, clothing torn and barely able to support himself, staggers forth clutching the mail bag. His trip to the village is one of suffering. The village has been aroused. Esther has reached it and has given the alarm before she faints. She had-interrupted the conversation of the proud mother of David to bring this news. A posse is formed. Men armed for battle start out, but are stopped as David drives up to the post-office with the mail. After he delivers it, he falls from his coach to the ground. He is grasped by his mother. When his eyes open he sees the proud light in Esther's eyes as she tells him that he is grand. Weakly, he says :

"Mother is right; I'm just tol'able."

How Long to Make the Synopsis.—The beginner usually is at a loss to know just how many words are used is a synopsis. Wishing to do full justice to his plot, he proceeds to tell it very voluminously, and since the acceptance or refusal of the script depends so largely on the synopsis, the writer really should not be restricted to any particular length. To be explained clearly, some plots require many more words than others.

In your zeal to be as brief as possible, do not be too concise. An incomplete synopsis is, in most particulars, even more objectionable than one too long, for the latter at least leaves no phase of the plot to be guessed at.

Though the synopsis must fully record the plot concisely and persuasively, there is no fixed limit to the number of words to be employed. The average five- or six-reel play is generally outlined in from one thousand to five thousand words. A synopsis should not be over five thousand words in length. D. W. Griffith says that "any story good enough to be made into a moving picture can be told in that length." Editors are trained in dramatic work and can quickly recognize good picture material. Furthermore, they are busy men and cannot bother to read extra long synopses.

Make your synopsis just as short as you can and still tell your story in a clear, comprehensive, entertaining manner. Do not omit anything having a direct bearing on your story, but tell it in as few words as possible. Do this: Imagine you are telling your synopsis to the photoplay editor himself. Write it, then, just as you would tell it to him—remembering constantly that he is a busy man.

In your effort to make your synopsis brief, do not write a wild scramble of words having little or no reference to your story. And, if you are in doubt whether you should use three thousand or five thousand words, use the greater number. Clarity is more important than brevity.

Do Not Write Continuity.—Too much emphasis can-not be placed upon the fact that, in writing a photoplay, you merely relate your plot in narrative form, just as you would tell it to some friends, and then submit it for sale. That is all you need do. Not under any circumstances do you write the continuity, or scenario ; you do not need to bother with that. In this connection, Mr. Samuel Goldwyn,

President of Goldwyn Film Corporation, has some interesting advice for you. He says:

By all means avoid writing technically. Close-up, long shot, fade-back, fade-out, panorama, iris! Many a script submitted to the Goldwyn studios is merely a painfully drawn up mass of terms such as the above, which the author calls a scenario and wherein his plot, which may be valuable, is effectually concealed.

Let us understand that the term "scenario," as used in the picture industry, means the plot-story on which the complete working script is based. The complete working script, with its numbered scenes and sub-titles and minute instructions, both for directors and cameramen, is termed "continuity."

Ideas and plots the producer is willing to buy; continuity he cannot possibly consider unless it is written to his order; and yet there are so-called schools still flourishing which represent this to be a profitable accomplishment to the writer outside of the studio.

Continuity is invariably prepared either by trained writers on the staff of the studio or by free-lance continuity writers of proven ability, who are engaged to come into the studio to put one or more stories into continuity form.

When you realize what a continuity is really responsible for, you will see why the producer cannot use even the most expert arrangement of scenes and sub-titles unless it is prepared to his order, and why it is useless to submit stories to him in such tedious and attenuated form.

The author of a continuity actually directs the director and the camera man, setting down in detail exactly what they shall do and how they shall do it. Consequently, the continuity writer must be experienced in observation of directorial and camera methods—a studio-trained man.

Also (to say nothing of his story-building and dramatic gifts) he must write scenes to bring out the special talents of the director and the cast. He can only do this if he knows what the director is trying to fit and what cast is. available.

He must know whether a five-reel, six-reel, or 'seven-reel script is wanted, for a continuity of different length would be written for each. He must specify sets which the studio has standing or is willing to build.

He must be able to estimate (approximately) the expense of production, and not write $100,000 worth of shots when the allotted amount for production is $85,000.

A continuity by an unknown author arriving in the reading department of any studio is greeted with a groan. Technical terms that are worse than useless will have to be waded through and the plot dragged to light. You can-not write a continuity that is easy to read—the best professional continuity is a tough reading proposition. For-get all complicated technique and create a story. Write your story as simply as you can. Write it as you would tell it to someone sitting opposite you, reciting the story, the important happenings, the characters of your people. Don't try to embellish your story to thrill the reader by your knowledge of gradiloquent phraseology. You only befog the issue, confuse the reader and cause us to strain in an attempt to peer through a cloudy mist at what is really important. Think in terms of action.

A Famous Director's Opinion.—Mr. Marshall Neilan, who has directed Mary Pickford in many of her greatest successes, gives such good advice regarding synopsis writing that we reproduce his message in full:

The trouble with many beginners who aspire to success in the creation of motion-picture stories is that they worry more about the technique or form in which the scenario is to be written than the construction of the plot itself.

The motion-picture producer is not so much interested in receiving a technically well-written scenario as he is in receiving good plot material with unusual situations, action, humor, romance, pathos and drama.

The producer is not particularly impressed with a story because it tells in detail how the heroine should enter the scene, which eye she should wink, how she should lift up the telephone receiver and with which hand she should wiggle the receiver. These are mechanics and details which he usually likes to work out in his own way and which he is more capable of doing than the inexperienced author.

If you were going to build a house you would not draw up the plans and work out the details yourself. You would go to the architect, give him your general ideas, together with all specific instructions on what you want, and let him work out the details.

As far as the producer is concerned, the creation of a motion-picture story should be considered in the same light. Every producer has a staff of experts who can write the continuity much better and much quicker than you can. This is their particular business. They take ideas and work out the details of how these ideas are to be presented on the screen.

If you can supply the ideas that is all that is required of you. I once paid a thousand dollars for a hundred words written on the back of an envelope and handed to me in Los Angeles by a person who had never written for the screen or even for publication.

In those hundred words there was a gold mine in the way of a climax that had never been attempted on the screen. Had this man attemped to place his ideas in continuity form it is quite certain he would have lost the real idea of his situation in the mass of technical de-tail.

Don't worry about entrances, exits, fade-outs, close-ups and all the other technical terms used in motion-picture stories. Don't worry about what shade of pink the heroine's dress should be. Just keep in mind the theme of your plot, develop it with as little padding as possible, keep to the point, do not worry about descriptive phases and try to keep your tale human, possible, real.

In short, tell your story on paper in the same manner you would tell it if you were sitting at home before your fireplace with some friends.

Before you write a single word be sure you have your idea of the plot well in mind. Once you have established this, write it down, even if it is only three hundred words. Then you can give your original further thought and work out other situations and twists in the story that might tend to make it unusual.

By having your original plot in black and white you will no doubt be surprised to see how quickly you are liable to get away from the point of your story and can check yourself from time to time in the creation of the theme.

After you have written your story, read it slowly. As you read, picture in your mind's eye each scene, each situation. Shut your eyes and fancy yourself at a motion picture theater with the screen before you. Imagine your story being unfolded upon that screen. In this way you will acquire the photographic version of your story and will be able to eliminate useless action and superlative phrases that mean nothing to the story itself.

Another thing to be avoided in the writing of your story is dialogue. Try to create situations that in themselves tell what the players are doing. Like the continuity writers at the studios, there are hundreds of capable title writers who will take care of the spoken titles better than you can hope to do. Remember that you are writing a pictorial story, not a vaudeville sketch, a book or a play.

A Few Things to Remember.—Take plenty of time. It is better to rewrite your synopsis a dozen times than to send it out unsatisfactory in any little detail.

While synopsis writing is not difficult, it nevertheless is vitally important, and the beginner cannot be too watchful. Synopses should be models of clearness and brevity.

You need three things to sell a script easily: a good plot, a well-written synopsis, a satisfactory title. Plot, synopsis, title—the "eternal three" of successful photoplay writing. Their importance cannot be overestimated.

Writing: The Cast Of Characters

How to Write the Cast.— When writing the synopsis, first note down the names of all your principal characters before you begin to outline the plot. Then, as you complete your synopsis, record each additional character's name as soon as he or she appears.

All of your important characters should be described briefly in your cast, so that the editor will know at a glance what type of characters they are.

The cast is necessary and important because it gives the editor a clear idea of how many people are needed to pro-duce your script. At a glance, he knows whether his company is capable of producing your work.

It is best to make the cast as explanatory as possible. This will be a great help to the editor. You should give the approximate age of the characters, general appearance, occupation, characteristics and the type of part he or she is to play. Of course, there are no special restrictions to be placed upon the description of your characters. A brief description of from three to twelve words is generally sufficient. If you bring out the characteristics of your people clearly in the synopsis, the probabilities are that you will not have to de-scribe them so fully in the cast.

A Model Cast of Characters.—The following Cast of Characters for "Tol'able David," the model synopsis reproduced in Chapter V, will give you a correct idea of just how to write the cast.

David Kinemon; younger son of Hunter Kinemon; ambitious to be a man; quick to avenge a wrong.

Hunter Kinemon; mountaineer father of David; a good man at peace with the world.

Mrs. Kinemon; David's faithful mother.

Allen Kinemon; David's elder brother, who drives the U. S. Mail Coach.

Rose Kinemon; devoted wife of Allen.

Mr. Hatburn; meek neighbor of the Kinemons.

Esther Hatburn; granddaughter of Hatburn; David's youthful sweeheart.

Iscah Hatburn; distantly related to Esther's grandfather, a base moutaineer who has just escaped from prison.

Luke Hatburn; elder son of Iscah; a fiendish character who delights in killing all living things.

Saul Hatburn; younger son of Iscah; self-centered and of a low order.

Rocket; David's dog.

Villagers, passengers, and others.

An Important Point to Remember.—As previously stated, to write a photoplay you merely prepare a detailed synopsis of the plot, telling the story of your play in from five hundred to five thousand words, and follow this synopsis with a list of the characters that take part in your production. This is all you need do. You do not bother with sub-titles, inserts, scenes, and so on; this is all attended to in the studio after your synopsis is purchased. Editors merely want to buy ideas from you—and they are willing to pay big money for them. So photoplay writing is a simple proposition technically. You merely prepare a synopsis and follow it with a cast of characters—then your work is ready to be submitted.

What Names to Give Your Characters.—Shakespeare said that a rose by another name would be just as sweet. In fact, he thought there wasn't much in a name. This is one instance where the great writer was wrong.

There is a great amount of psychology in names. It will be worth your time to study them. Many writers are able to make you like or dislike their characters, in a measure, just as soon as you hear their names. Dickens and Hawthorne often happily made the name describe the character. Isn't it easy to tell that "Mr. Gathergold" is a money grabber?

Some inexperienced writers seem to enjoy calling their hero Apollo or Reginald, while their heroine blossoms out handicapped with Magnolia or Evalina. Such names are the identification marks of inexperience. Do not use them. Can you imagine any reasonable person wanting to follow the antics of an Apollo?

Different names suggest different stations in life. The tendency among writers who want to make the character seem aristocratic, is to call them Van der This or Van Something Else. The reason for this is not clear. Surely there is nothing in the "Van" to elevate the character. Richard Harding Davis once wrote a story about a fair sort of chap whom he called Van Bibber. Can it be imitation that has brought about this Van-pest? By all means do not handicap your characters with such names. If you knew how irritating it is to an editor, you would not do so. If you have to choose between calling your character Vanderbilt or Smith, make it Smith !

There is great power and beauty in a well-chosen name. You should not use names appearing in popular plays or publications, however, even though they are very attractive; for readers often ascribe certain characteristics to certain names and are liable to be prejudiced against your characters. Remember that a bad name suggests a bad character; and, if you try to make the public believe otherwise, you will have a difficult time.

Writing: The Scene Plot

Why the Scene-Plot is Not Especially Important to You.—As indicated in a former chapter, the scene-plot is the third division of the complete photoplay manuscript as produced in the studio. The scene-plot consists of a list of all the different scenes, both interior and exterior, used in the photoplay, together with an indication of the number of scenes photographed in each set.

Inasmuch as the scene-plot is written in the studio, after the script has been purchased, the new writer is not particularly interested in it. The subject is therefore discussed briefly in this chapter, in the hope that the reader may some day secure a position as staff writer or director, and then find the following information of value.

The division of this chapter entitled, "Why Sets Should Be Limited," is important to you, however. Read it carefully.

The Purpose of the Scene-Plot.—The scene-plot quickly shows the director just what different "locations" are necessary to produce a manuscript. This is important for him to know, for the production of some pictures requires unusual scenic effects, often necessitating special trips to distant localities. To film some plays it is necessary to take an entire company of players and cameramen from one city to an-other, from one state to another, and even from one country to another.

The term scene-plot is borrowed from the theater. The scene-plot in regular theatrical work consists of a list of the different scenes, and shows where the different drops, foliage, cut drops, and the like, are located, and how and where the various pieces of scenery are to be placed on the stage. The theatrical scene-plot is used by the stage carpenter, who arranges the different stage settings.

In photoplay production the scene-plot serves a similar purpose. Even though considerable artificial scenery is not used in photoplays, the scene-plot is none the less valuable. Instead of being handled by a stage carpenter, however, it is used by the director, who supervises the making of each photoplay. He tells each character exactly what he must do. He is the man, then, who interprets your manuscript from beginning to end. He must know what articles of furniture appear in each scene, what setting is to be used, if it is an exterior or interior, and so on. This information the scene-plot gives him.

How the Scene-Plot Is Written.—The scene-plot consists of a numerical list of the different settings required to produce the play in question, and each different setting is followed by the numbers of the different scenes in which that setting is used. The various settings are divided into two classes, depending on whether they are produced indoors or taken in the open. Those produced inside of the studio are grouped under the heading "Interiors"; those produced in the open are listed as "Exteriors."

Being a list of the different settings and properties, the scene-plot obviously must be written in the studio after the photoplay continuity has been written. Consequently, the new writer need not concern himself greatly about scene-plot writing.

Why Sets Should Be Limited.—One word of caution slightly relative to the scene-plot will not be amiss. It is the tendency of many beginners to use a multitude of different scenes in their plays. This may be due to the fact that the average beginner often wants his characters to travel over extended areas. Whatever the cause, never make the mistake of requiring the use of a great number of different settings in any of your manuscripts. Such plays are immediately rejected. Producers do not want plays requiring so many different scenes.

Many excellent five- and six-reel manuscripts have been produced with only eighteen or twenty interior settings. Of course, it is much easier to use a great many scenes in a manuscript, because it thus is possible to develop the plot with much less work. But you will find that, if you use too many different settings in your play, it will be difficult to sell. You need not be so sparing in your use of exterior settings, however, as it does not cost a great deal to utilize nature.

Avoid the use of costly paraphernalia in the working out of your script. Do not let your hero buy a yacht and burn it up, or wreck a couple of automobiles before breakfast. This may sometimes prove animating to a certain class of people, but it is a little too exciting for the producer who has to supply the material.

In short, when developing your plot, try to confine the action of your characters to a limited area, so as not to be extravagant in scenes and settings.

Writing: Characters In The Photoplay

Why Your Characters Should Be Worth Knowing.—Figuratively speaking, you will be the social sponsor of the characters you create in your photoplays; therefore, if you introduce the picture-going public to characterless or uninteresting people, you will be guilty of a social indiscretion, so to speak. The average person does not care to associate or mingle with people who are not worth while. Likewise, the picture-goer does not want to waste an evening meeting fictitious characters who are not worth the time and trouble.

The Secret of Writing a Good Photoplay.—To write a good photoplay you must become in love with your characters. If you are not deeply absorbed in the lives of the characters you create, you cannot expect the public to be. In other words, you cannot interest your audience in things in which you yourself have not become deeply absorbed. You must feel every thrill, all suspense, every joy, and every sorrow you expect your public to feel. If you cannot rejoice with your hero's triumph, weep with. your heroine's sorrow, rave at your villain's treachery—in short, if you cannot excite yourself with your own story, if you are not affected by all the emotions created by the events through which your characters pass, you cannot expect the theater-goer to be affected, and you cannot write a successful story.

Where to Find Characters for Your Photoplay.—Where do writers find the many different types of people depicted on the screen? How should the beginner proceed to create various characters for his first photoplay? There are only three ways in which photoplay characters can be created. (I) You must find your characters from direct observation or knowledge of people as you know them or have observed them directly in the actual world about you; or (2) you must create your characters from the things you hear and read about people, thus appropriating the experiences of others; or (3) you must create characters purely from your imagination.

1. Creating Characters from Direct Observation.—Creating characters from direct observation is of necessity a very limited process, for every man's experiences with various types of people is of necessity more or less limited. Obviously, a traveling salesman going about from city to city, from hotel to hotel, and meeting all classes and conditions of people, has countless opportunities to observe various types of human characters. On the other hand, the farmer, who naturally comes in contact with a limited variety of humans, would not be likely to create as great a variety of characters from personal observation as the salesman. Yet, when the actual writing of a photoplay is begun, the farmer might be able to create far more characters, and a greater variety of characters, than the salesman could; for there are other and perhaps more important ways to find people for plays.

2. Creating Characters from Indirect Knowledge.—This brings into consideration characters created from indirect knowledge; that is, from what the photoplaywright reads and hears of people. A great many writers create screen characters from things they hear about people, from stories and articles they read in books, in magazines, or in the news-papers. The characters of many of the greatest photoplays have been created from things the author has read about people of other countries and other ages. In order to produce "The Birth of a Nation," the producer, Mr. D. W. Griffith, of necessity was forced to create his characters from what in-formation he could secure from various historical writings, and what information he could gather from people who lived during the Civil War period. Many writers have devoted months of time to the reading of as many as three or four hundred books relating to the customs and manners and habits of the people of a certain period before they have attempted to create their characters. This method of character creation is not a good one for the new writer, however, because he is not apt to depict characters realistically unless he writes about people with whom he is more familiar—people who live in the now-a-day world about him.

3. Creating Characters from the Imagination.—The most common and the most successful way to create vivid characters is to mold them direct from your own imagination. It is not generally customary for writers to transfer to the screen characters whom they have read about, have heard of, or have seen in real life. The real artist prefers to remold the characters he has heard of, or read about, or lived with; he prefers to do this because he desires to create something different from the common characters of real life. Of course, all character-drawing must of necessity depend to a certain extent upon what the author already knows of real people; but the best method of depicting a character on the screen is to place yourself in the imaginary character's situation and determine the act of your imaginary circumstance. Therefore, your ability to create characters is limited only by your own knowledge of human nature. This, the third method of character creation, is the one for the average beginner to follow.

What Your Attitude Toward Your Characters Should Be.— When portraying a character on the screen, the photo-playwright may assume any one of three positions, so to speak, with respect to his characters. (I) He may gaze up at them in frank admiration of their virtues; or (2) he may look down at them in a detached or even openly hostile manner; or (3) he may assume a position of equality, whereby he places himself on a direct level with his characters, looking at them frankly and openly, in an effort to interpret all of their emotions in a sympathetic, friendly manner. Many screen writers assume an attitude of frank worship for their characters, especially their heroes and heroines. In many cases, especially where the photoplay tends to border on the allegorical, this is a good attitude to assume. In general, however, it is not a good idea to treat characters too much as demigods. The result is quite apt to be unrealistic. On the other hand, it is not advisable to assume a superior attitude toward your characters, or to adopt an attitude of detachment or open hostility toward them ; for the picture-goer is quite apt to assume the same attitude, with the result that his sympathies will not be aroused and your play is apt to suffer. The best attitude to assume toward your characters is one of frank equality. Stand on a level with the children of your brain; gaze at their virtues and weaknesses with frank, open eyes; study them in a friendly manner. Depict your characters in such a friendly manner that they seem to be well-rounded people. Try to ascribe motives for their actions, whether good or bad. Do not make your hero snow-white or your villain coal-black. There is good and bad in the worst and best of us.

The Importance of Moral Sympathy.—Moral sympathy with your characters is absolutely essential if your work is to possess value. Of course, your delineation of character must be impartial, and it is better that your sympathy with your characters should be implied rather than expressed ; but you must sympathize with them nevertheless. No writer can pro-duce work of permanent value, or even of temporary merit, unless he is close to his characters and sympathizes with them deeply. In this way, you cause your audience to sympathize with all of your characters, even the most unworthy. You should make your audience realize that the worst character of your play was human after all, although actuated by mistaken motives and warped ideas, which, however, were justified in his own mind.

Why the Audience Must Be Considered When Creating Characters.—It is vitally necessary that you carefully consider your audience. The average motion picture audience is made up of people of all ages, all temperaments, all degrees of education, or lack of it. It is obvious, therefore, that plays with a highly-colored sex appeal will hardly be acceptable to the average producer, due to the fact that he must take into consideration the large number of young boys and girls who frequent the movies. On the other hand, it would be a mistake to soar to intellectual heights that are far beyond the average person, and it is the average person who constitutes the motion picture audience. Just because a writer may feel at home in a lofty atmosphere, it does not follow that he will find a sympathetic audience among the motion picture public. You must always bear in mind the fact that your photoplays are not written for college professors; you are trying to sell your photoplay to a picture editor of average education, and he in turn is attempting to produce pictures that will appeal to the average American citizen. The average American is not delving into ancient history or worrying about the Einstein theory of Relativity. The average person nowadays is too busy earning a living to be concerned to any great extent with higher arts and sciences. Therefore, the average person is not interested in characters who delve in these subjects.

Why Characters Should Be Placed in Typical Environment.—You should begin your photoplay with action showing your characters in their natural element. For example, if the heroine of your play is a small-town girl who longs to , make a name for herself on the stage in the city, it will be much better to show her at the outset in a small town, dreaming of her future, than to begin your story with her already in the city and then try to explain the past with a sub-title. You should also show each character in some characteristic action when he first appears in your synopsis. If the plot of your production deals with the young man who has a mania for speeding, it might be a good idea to begin your play by showing him driving at a terrific rate in his car. In is way, a correct impression of your character will be made immediately.

Why Characters Must Be Up-To-Date.—Yesterday is dead. Forget it. Write of to-day. Make your characters modern. To-day is the day of action. Liveliness is what the world wants. Some conservatives may charge that people today are less wise, more rude, reckless, and impertinent than people of yesterday; but they are entirely mistaken. They misunderstand. People of today have merely learned to say more in fewer words, to be incisive, to omit all that tends to delay. Slang is more popular than ever—not because it is less meritorious, but because it is more vivid and less cumbersome. The difference between yesterday and today is the difference between a letter and a telegram, between a buggy and a motor car. We may have lost some of the poetry of life, but we have gained time.

The Kind of Heroine You Should Create.—The heroine of photoplays today is a far different creature from her sister heroine of the past. In the early days of motion pictures, the heroine was golden-haired, angel-eyed, frail and faithful, but lifeless and drab. Following this type, the vampire came into vogue. This vampire heroine marked what might be termed the second epoch in the development of photoplay heroines. Both of these extreme characters were too unnatural and unreal to be permanent. Both soon vanished from the screen.

Your heroine today must be like the girls and women of today. She must be democratic and reasonably proud; brisk; up-to-date; well-tailored; active; sophisticated, yet unquestionably wholesome. She should be innocent but not ignorant. Do not under any circumstances make your heroine the unsophisticated, silly type of old who was deceived by the well-dressed stranger, who generally encounterd her while out for his morning canter. This type of heroine was laughed off the stage and screen years ago.

The modern heroine should not be an idler, a time-waster.

She should have ideas, independence, and something to occupy her attention. The theater-going public is not interested in the idling, time-wasting, unoccupied heroine of yesterday. The modern girl is full of life and activity at all times. This is the age of action.

The girl of to-day is quite unrestricted by fashion and tradition. She wants to be more than a mere fiancee or wife. The modern girl wants to do something, to be accomplished, to develop her personality, to better her physical and social self. Your heroine should be that type of girl. Understand, she should not be masculine in any way; her femininity should only be the more attractive because of the new elements in her personality. Of course, your heroine must not be forward or coarse. Make her vivacious but not improper.

By all means endow her with a sense of humor. Until recently no one knew that a woman was supposed to have a sense of humor, but of late years this remarkable discovery has been made, and the photoplay is a good medium for displaying it.

When creating your heroine, don't be afraid to have her flirt, or kiss, if necessary. But if she is affectionate, have her kiss and run, not kiss and cling. The "vampy" type is objectionable; the former is not. The modern audience of today likes a heroine who is gay, vivid, active—purely from good spirit. The heroine in your play can be as vivacious as you want her to be, can even flirt on occasion, provided she is not trying to trick someone. A heroine may be animated, but should not appear silly or spoony. There should be a lot of gay, buoyant laughter behind all of her adventures, but the gayety and laughter should at all times be wholesome. By all means avoid having your heroine appear to be an adventuress. She may be admired by many men, may be the object of many men's devotion, but she should not under any circumstances attempt to do anything which might be interpreted as trying to take advantage of any of her admirers. It may be well enough to "kid them along," to use a common expression, but your heroine's motives must always be innocent and aboveboard at all times.

Some Things Your Heroine Can and Cannot Do.—Your heroine should be typical of today, but how far can you go in being up-to-date? The public at large does not care to see a heroine coolly smoke a cigarette. The world has progressed in rapid strides since heroines fainted at the least excuse, but it has not reached the point where it will tolerate this type of heroine. You cannot let your heroine indulge in any in-discretion and still be the ideal of thousands of movie fans. The world approves of many things to-day, where it once was shocked at the young lady who used perfume; but your heroine must not be suspected of being indiscreet. Little details of character often make a great difference in the way your manuscript is received by the scenario editors. They do not want you to create prudish characters; in fact, they prefer the gay, vivacious and dashing type, but you must be sure not to of-fend the average person.

Let your heroine dance. You will not offend anyone. Disapproval of dancing is dead. All the world dances today or loves to watch it. All the world loves to see a screen heroine who dances with a great deal of animation and seemingly for the love of it. And a great many married women find a great deal of pleasure in imagining themselves in the role of your dancing heroine.

Do not be afraid to have your heroine use powder and rouge. There was a time when provincial folks looked with horror upon the woman who dared to hide the shine on her nose with a little powder ; but we have now progressed to the point where we realize that a woman may powder and rouge without any loss of virtue.

How Your Heroine Should Dress.—Your heroine may be permitted to wear low-necked gowns, provided they are not extreme. A backless gown might not be objectionable if worn by an adventuress, but it hardly would meet with favor worn by your heroine.

There was a time when an elaborate hairdress was regarded as a device of the devil, but the belief that feminine beauty was only a thing to tempt men and lead them astray has gone the way of other barbarous superstitions and stupidities. To-day your heroine may adorn herself as she thinks best. The modern woman has revolted against many of the older ideas. Imagine the horror of the public at any woman who would have dared to "bob" her hair twenty years ago. Today it is common and has been adopted by the best people, especially those who are sufficiently alive to. assert themselves. So you need not hesitate to make your heroine modern in every respect. Let her swim skillfully, drive an automobile readily, ride a horse fearlessly, and dance with grace. Most moving picture actresses can do these things, so you will not be placing your manuscript under any handicap if you make your leading character one of this type.

Married Women as Heroines.—Until recently, most producers thought the public was interested only in the marrying off of the young heroine. The rush for young girl stars swept the country, but that day has past. Youth is no longer the main thing. The problem of youth readjusting itself to marriage is the theme of many of our best photoplays. So the heroine of your photoplay need not necessarily be a young unmarried girl. Many of the best photoplays produced today deal with the problems of married life. Forget the old-fashioned idea that romance died when a girl married. The married woman of today dresses just as well and looks just as beautiful as her single sisters. Many of the best stories produced on the screen assume that the most interesting problems of love begin at marriage.

Just stop and think of the married people you know. Where might you have helped some of them when dealing with their problems? Where could you have helped them to greater happiness with a word or two of advice? Where would a word or two of caution have saved a home from disintegration had you been so situated that you could have uttered that word?

If your heroine is married, she should preserve her appearance and youthful spirit. She should dress the same as the young unmarried girl of her day, she should look the same as she did before marriage, and should be attractive mentally and physically, and should maintain her interest in all the joyful things of life from the newest dances to the latest books.

As a matter of fact, the young married woman who retains her youth and beauty, and refuses to become an old lady after a year of marriage, ought to figure largely in many of your photoplays. This is a type found everywhere today. This young married woman who follows the latest fashions and refuses to be relegated to the back row with her grandmother, should feature in many of your best plays. This young woman dances with whom she pleases, talks candidly about things her mother never dared to think of except secretly, resents the idea that there are things in life she should not know about, says she will be better able to combat evil when she is fully informed about it, refuses to allow her husband to act as a guard, and yet is far worthier of his confidence than the ladies of old who nervously met their Romeos in secret lanes.

Why the Young Married Woman Makes a Good Heroine.—This young married woman offers you great opportunities because her husband is "between two fires." He likes to see his wife admired by other men and women and is anxious to have her wear the latest fashions and appear at her best ; still, something in his personality causes him to resent her refusal to resign herself exclusively to him and his home. Of course, he wants other men to envy and admire his wife, but he doesn't like to have them flirt with her. His better judgment makes him positive that his wife can always be trusted in evry situation; still, he is forced to combat an age-old feeling within him that his wife should be devoting herself exclusively to him. Here is a fertile field for finding characters. A story built around this situation will interest men and women of all ages, temperaments, environments, and education.

Remember the Young Mother.—Don't forget the young mother of today—she makes an absorbing heroine for many photoplays. In "Dangerous Curve Ahead," Mr. Rupert Hughes used this situation as a basis for his absorbing play. The wonderful success of this play proves that the heroine of your photoplay need not be a young girl who meets her hero in the first reel and marries him in the fifth. Your photoplay can just as well, and perhaps better, be built around the absorbing things happening in the lives of the young married woman who is the mother of one or two children. This young mother furnishes interesting story material because she is so different from her mother of yesterday. People yesterday thought a mother must devote every minute of her life to her children. They devoted themselves in this way too much, and often injured their health, not to mention their social future. Today young mothers love their children just as much as the mothers of the past, but they have grown more sensible. They realize that a mother can care for children properly and still maintain interest in other things. Yesterday the world looked with horror upon the mother who would go out in the evening and leave her children in the care of a nurse-maid. Today this is common. The world realizes that a mother owes something to herself and to her husband—that she has the right to enjoy life, to be up-to-date, to preserve her health, to enjoy wholesome sports and amusements, and to think occasionally of other things besides her children. Of course, there are in every community a few individuals who still cling to the old ideas, but they are so few in number that they will not injure the prospect of selling your photo-play if you deal with the modern woman. Motion picture making is an up-to-date art and 'insists upon dealing with the up-to-date world as it actually exists.

Do Not Create Characterizations for Well-Known Stars.—Do not make the fatal mistake of creating a leading character in your story to be played by Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, Lillian Gish, or any other star! Write with only your own particular characters in mind, regardless of how tempting it may be to fit a story around a screen personality you admire or how great your understanding of the type of .parts he or she plays. Create your own characters. Leave the fitting of people to your characters to the director.

Keep Your Hero Smiling.—It is perfectly proper and right that your hero should be serious at times, but never solemn. Solemnity never should creep into your photoplay. Make your hero a laughing, active man full of the spirit of modern life. Picture audiences of to-day care nothing what-ever for the solemn heroes of Tennyson's day. Years ago people admired heroes who wasted away from love; they be-came enamoured of long-faced sentimentalists who solemnly mourned in sylvan glades because their Juliet would not answer the call of their moaning guitar. The photoplay has happily taken this character out of fiction; it has put a smile in romance. Heroes no longer bear a perplexed frown because of defeat; the screen hero today smiles both in defeat and victory and his smile pleases the audience. Understand, your hero should not be a grinning idiot. He should not smile merely for the sake of smiling. There should be a reason for his smiles. Your plot itself should furnish the situations and characterizations for a good-humoured hero. Furthermore, your hero's smile should not be one of good-humoured laziness. It should radiate cheer and optimism and determination to forge ahead regardless of obstacles and disappointments.

Keep Your Hero Clean.—The public will not tolerate a hero of questionable character. Of course, he should not be a Sir Gallahad—he should act like a normal, red-blooded young man. He may even err and see the error of his ways, but never, under any circumstances, should it seem that erring is willful or intentional. His mistake should be the result of carelessness, thoughtlessness, mischievousness, or recklessness, but never the result of direct intent.

It is not desirable to write a story around a hero who is a criminal. For one reason, it is practically impossible to get the censors to pass such a play. Furthermore, a real criminal is seldom heroic. There was a time when criminal heroes were quite popular, but it is not now advisable for the beginner to attempt to write a photoplay around a "Jimmie Valentine."

By all means your hero should not be the type who makes love to married women or deceives simple girls. This will not only offend good taste but will undoubtedly prove unacceptable to the censors. Neither should your hero be made ridiculous by being constantly surrounded by a swarm of pretty girls making love to him. The public does not care for "he-vamps." They feel that the hero of such a photoplay is not sufficiently manly to be a real hero.

Better a hero who is backward in love affairs than one who is "tricky." The heroine may be capricious and perhaps uncertain in her devotion but you must not endow your hero with these traits. Let your hero suffer from the whims of your heroine, if necessary, but do not let her weep and wonder about him. His love should be constant; it may even border on worship. His should keep the sympathy of your audience. Your hero should be devoted to one woman. He should be constant and reverent. He should be willing to overcome any obstacle to secure the object of his affection. But he should not be a slave to his affections. The type of hero who tears his hair, expostulates, protests, vows, swears, and broods, never has been and never will be popular with American audiences.

Your hero should not be all virtue. A few faults will make him more human. He will not be injured in any way if he has a few of the amiable weaknesses of the average American man; he will not be ruined if he mildly uses profanity and smokes cigarettes. Of course, these slight vices will not raise him in public esteem, but they will prevent him from seeming too angelic, too good, unreal.

Make Your Hero a Character to Be Admired.—We are all idealists when we attend the movies ; we like to see characters we can look up to and admire. Women especially are apt to think unconsciously of the hero as an imaginary husband or admirer. Therefore, you should inject into your plot situations that emphasize the hero's strength, constancy, and fidelity. Women admire sincere men. They look for this character in film heroes. So when creating your leading male character for the screen, always satisfy yourself that he will be approved of as an ideal husband or admirer.

Like your heroine, your hero should have something to do. The public will not tolerate an idler as a hero. They demand one who is keen, strong, intelligent, and very much in love with his work. He must have a "job." And your photoplay should deal more or less with his work. The main events of your plot and its climax, however, need not deal with this phase of his life.

Nothing will injure your photoplay quicker than to have your hero appear conceited. It is permissible to make him proud, but he should always seem democratic. He should not pose. He should never be placed in situations where he appears self-conscious. He may be strong and determined, but he should be considerate of others. He should be considerate of women's comforts; courteous without being excessively polite.

Number of Characters to Put in Your Photoplay.—The average photoplay should contain from five to ten characters of sufficient importance to impress the audience. In some cases it is possible to evolve a strong plot with less than five characters, but this is rather a difficult undertaking for a beginner. Futhermore, it is difficult to depict character strongly where so few characters exist, because there is a lack of contrast which is readily produced when several characters are introduced. In other words, the strength or weakness of any character is brought out by that character's contrast with other characters in the photoplay. As an example of character contrast, consider Tom Mix in some of his Western pictures. Mr. Mix does not pretend to be much of an actor. He merely attempts to do real Western stunts with brilliance and fidelity. He is masculine, athletic, rugged. As a rule, a very effeminate leading lady, of the willowy, clinging type is selected to play opposite him. By this device of character contrast, the talent and the dominant traits of each character are made to stand out strongly in the eye of the audience. The result is pleasing and effective and is sure to enhance interest.

A photoplay is greatly improved by a varied cast, especially when the different characters represent widely variant ages and conditions of life; but you must be exceedingly careful not to introduce too many characters in your play. While too few characters make for lack of contrast and cause the spectator to weary of the same faces, too many characters, on the other hand, will only serve to confuse the audience, muddle your plot, and make your story very uninteresting. While it is not generally desirable for the beginner to attempt to build a photoplay around two or three characters, it also is very undesirable for him to make the mistake of introducing a great many characters, most of them more or less unimportant.

The Age of Your Characters.—As a rule, it is advisable to use heroes and heroines who are young, or in their prime. This is not an infallible rule, and it may be possible to build a wonderful plot around the life of an elderly person. Generally speaking, however, the public prefers strong, young heroes and beautiful, charming heroines. These youthful main characters are greatly enhanced in effectiveness, though, when some of the minor characters are of greater age, more experienced, less unsophisticated. Undoubtedly, you have seen Theodore Roberts' expressive face, with its shaggy eyebrows and inevitable cigar, in support of many youthful heroines. Mr. Roberts' finished artistry and careful attention to rich detail, not to mention his rugged characterizations, have undoubtedly contributed more to the success of several of these youthful heroines than the average person realizes. While it may not be obvious to the casual theater goer, the minor characters in a photoplay, when they are carefully selected so that they evince considerable contrast to the main characters, very often contribute a great deal more than their share to the success of a photoplay. Your admiration of many of the beautiful, though rather characterless, female stars you may have seen has been engendered in a large measure by the meritorious support they have received. So it behooves you by all means to devote considerable attention to your selection of the minor characters in your photoplay, to make them in contrast with the leading characters so as to strengthen your characterization.

Be Careful of Extremes.--When writing their first photo-plays, many beginners take a short-cut and attempt to get quick, effective results by creating a villian of the blackest dye, an unmistakable "Jack Dalton," who ominously strokes his piratical mustache while plotting dastardly deeds. This type of scoundrel may register quickly on the screen, but he will soon be laughed out of the picture by a public which will not tolerate such a character. On the other hand, a sanctimonious hero who passionately pleads for justice when there is no important issue at stake will not "register." Neither will your heroine seem interesting if she is merely snow-white. When creating characters, always remember that there is good in the worst and bad in the best. No one is all white and no one is all black—they are merely contrasting shades of gray.

How to Make Characters Seem Real.—Each character you create should be a living, breathing person who will stand out from the typewritten page even before the director and actor take him in hand. This realism may be produced in many instances by drawing your characters from people you know; at least, your characters should be people you might easily have met. By studying your friends and relatives, and the people you meet every day in your home and out of it, you will make your photoplay characters more natural and life-like. It would also be a good idea to carry your characters in your mind for some time before you begin the actual writing of your play. You will then become intimately acquainted with them. You will get to know them so well that you will be absolutely sure of the reaction they will take to any given circumstance. Until you are perfectly acquainted with the real disposition of the characters you are attempting to bring to life on the silver-sheet, you should not write a line of your play; for if your characters are vague to you, you certainly will not be able to make them real to the editor who reads your synopsis. And the real character drawing in your photoplay must be done by you in the synopsis. You cannot leave this to the person who makes the scenario out of your synopsis or to the director who produces the photoplay. Even a skillful character actor cannot create a character who has not lived in your own mind. So the question of character portrayal in your work is an important one and should be given careful consideration.

How to Characterize the People in Your Photoplay.—To say that your hero is "a good-looking young man" is not enough. Any number of young men would fit in with this description and yet might differ radically in character. If you label your heroine as "young and pretty" you are not characterizing her in the least, for many young girls fit this general description. To say that the mother in your photoplay is an elderly woman will not suffice. She must be given distinguishing characteristics. You must show by her appearance, by her actions, by her mannerisms, the exact kind of elderly woman she is. When she first appears in your photo-play she may stop to speak to a little child; or, on the other hand, she may quarrel with a tradesman. These two actions indicate two very different types of women.

You cannot portray character in your photoplay by means of subtitles. You cannot say that So-and-so is Such-and-such. You must bring out his character by the things he does. It will not do to say that your heroine is "graceful and athletic"—you must bring this fact out by showing her playing tennis or engaged in some other similar sport.

The things your characters do throughout the story must not only help to bring the plot to its climax, but must also be consistent with their personalities. Therefore, after your characters have been introduced and their characteristics have been clearly impressed upon the mind of the audience, you must be on your guard against inconsistencies of character. Each of your characters should react naturally to the various situations as they arise. The brave young man should be courageous, the schemer should be plotting, and the erring one should continue his crooked way, at least for a time.

Difficulties of Character Reformation.—This brings us to a consideration of reformation of character. While some plays are built around the idea of character reformation, the idea is a difficult one to handle. As a rule, reformations are not convincing, and it is almost impossible to put a character through a chain of circumstances that will make a reformation seem plausible. There must be something to make the change convincing and the change must take place very slowly. The character change which takes place must begin early in the story and must progress in such a gradual manner that the audience is hardly cognizant of the change until it has taken place.

Take "The Miracle Man" for example. This great photo-play was an excellent example of a production built around the idea of character reformation. The play was very successful and very realistic, due entirely to the fact that it was handled in a rarely skillful manner. While it is possible to produce a play of this character, it is so difficult that the beginner is advised against attempting to write any synopsis in which the main personages undergo any great change of character.

Identify Characters Quickly.—As soon as any new character enters the plot of your photoplay, it will be a good idea to have him do some little thing that will reveal his character to the minds of the audience. If the main character of your play goes out of his way when he first appears to kick a dog, the entire audience will immediately understand his disposition and will be expecting subsequent cruelty on his part. These little glimpses into the hearts of your characters should be introduced as early as possible in your story without betraying the importance of each character to the plot. The characters in your play should enter and meet much as they do in real life without the audience knowing which ones are to have the most to do with the story itself.

Why You Must Consider the Actor.—When creating characters in your photoplay, remember that they will be brought to life on the screen by real men and real women, so you cannot demand or expect the impossible. All actors are not daring horsemen, high divers, fearless lion tamers. Photo-plays featuring these types of rare characters are especially written in studios by hired writers who know the accomplishments of the actor for whom the play is being written. The photoplay you write should be so endowed with characters that any number of companies could produce it. In this way your chances of success are infinitely greater.

Also remember that every motion picture actress is not the most beautiful woman in the world, and you are only making it impossible to sell your work if you feature this type of heroine in your production. Furthermore, you cannot expect to sell your photoplay if the heroine is to be dropped from the top of a building, thrown from a bucking bronco, or fed to the lions. Motion picture actresses are only human, like yourself, and the young lady who is to play the leading role in your production may have aged parents at home entirely dependent upon her. So you must be considerate of your characters; that is, if you expect to sell your work.

Writing: Setting In The Photoplay

The Function of Setting Explained.—Setting in the photoplay consists of the time, place, and condition it) which the action takes place. In the setting we have what we might call "atmosphere" in terms of art, or "environment" in the terminology of science. In a way, the setting means to the plot and characters what the background of a painting means to the figures painted, with the exception that the setting frequently exerts considerable effect upon the plot of a play and upon the characters in it. For example, suppose in a particular scene the main characters are attending a dance. Surely it would make a great difference upon the characters and the plot if the setting or background of that dance were a ballroom on Fifth Avenue or a barroom on the Bowery. So the setting in a photoplay is important for this reason if for no other.

How Setting Affects Chances of Selling Your Work. —The setting in your photoplay is also important because of the bearing it may have upon the ultimate acceptance or rejection of your manuscript. Editors are partial toward stories that may be filmed without too great an expenditure of time and money. While it may be pleasing to you to write a story dealing with the South Sea Islands or the Alps, it may not be possible for the average editor to transport a company to these places and produce your play. It may indeed be a very thrilling background to the action of your plot to have a great city destroyed) by an earthquake, or an ocean liner sunk by a submarine--but a setting of this character may make it absolutely impossible for you to dispose of your work. While several photoplays with extremely elaborate settings have been produced, such as, "Intolerance," "Foolish Wives," and several others, these photoplays without exception were arranged by the directors themselves with concrete knowledge of exactly what they could and could not do, A manuscript of this character is almost never bought from an amateur.

It is not necessary for the success of your play to introduce rare or costly settings. Some of the greatest photoplays of all time have been developed in an ordinary atmosphere where the cost of production was at a minimum. Take, for example, "Tol'able David," in which Mr. Richard Barthelmess was featured. From every standpoint, this was probably one of the greatest motion pictures ever produced. The characterization was perfect, the plot was thrilling, the entire play was tense with great dramatic situations, and yet the setting' was a plain rural section of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Here was a great photoplay with the plainest setting imaginable.

So your chances of ultimately disposing of your work are greatly increased if the setting, or background, of your photo-play is one that can be supplied readily from the properties that are the possession of all studios. Every first-class motion picture studio can provide any reasonable setting—large city streets and buildings, country valleys and hills, all types of homes, and any of the average interiors, such as, living-rooms, bedrooms, offices, drawing-rooms, kitchens, and other scenes common to American life. Any scene may be put into your play, or you may use any setting you like, if it is only common to the majority of American people. But if you select as a setting for your play some out-of-the-way locality, the chances are ninety-nine to one that your work will be rejected.

In spite of the fact that many directors and producers have the reputation of being very careless with their money when it comes to producing pictures, it is a fact that the great majority are thrifty, economical business men who do not unnecessarily waste large sums of money. They are all attempting to produce the most pleasing result possible with the greatest economy of means; for the more they spend upon the setting of any photoplay, the less doubtful it becomes whether or not they will make a profit. And the profit risk is of times greater than the outsider may realize. The writer who understands this situation and attempts to cooperate with economy is the one who receives first consideration.

Beauty in the Setting.—In your effort to provide a simple setting, you should not spoil your photoplay with an uninteresting background. While it will hinder your chance of success to use a setting requiring the expenditure of too much time and money, it likewise will spoil an otherwise good photo-play to have it lack proper setting. While producers do not always care to spend many thousands of dollars upon rare settings, they nevertheless are always perfectly willing to go to any legitimate or necessary expense to provide a setting fully in keeping with the excellence of your story. So you need not hesitate to provide a setting that is at once in harmony with the story of your photoplay and at the same time a thing of artistry and beauty. In fact, it is very important that the background of your play be pleasing to the eye. The lives of many theater-goers are more or less drab, colorless, and uninteresting, Hence, they enjoy beauty in their entertainment. To see a photoplay in which the action quite largely takes place amid pleasant, bright surroundings, furnishes a happy relief to the sameness of life's events and acts as a mental tonic to movie fans. So it is true that most people do not care to see a story of tenement life, of hardships, of poverty, of deprivation—they much prefer to look at the brighter side of life. Deal with it, then, in your next photoplay. And remember that many of the most beautiful things in life are those nearest you. You need not visit Hawaii to find beautiful settings. There is hidden charm in a little side street of your own city; a little ragged child playing in the back yard can be made artistic when properly photographed and carefully handled by a competent director. In many of the D. W. Griffith productions the most poignantly beautiful and expressive scenes are not those reproductions of French villages and streets during the revolution, or the walls of Babylon before the fall, but are those scenes with simple backgrounds, the familiar American settings, scenes in which the simple country maiden is shown enjoying the company of some of the farm fowls. In many cases Mr. Griffith has taken a common setting and so photographed it and so arranged the characters featured in the scene that it looked like a reproduction of a master painting. In all things, including the photoplay setting, the simplest things are often the grandest, because the appeal is more universal and more understandable.

How the Setting Has Increased in Importance.—In the early stages of motion pictures the setting was of very little importance. If an exterior scene were photographed, almost any location not repulsive would do; and, if an interior were photographed, cheap canvas scenery was used and was considered entirely satisfactory: for the photoplay of those days was more or less a curiosity, and it was highly gratifying and satisfying to the audience merely to see characters moving back and forth before them. As pictures developed and progressed to their present stage, the setting constantly played an increasing role of importance. More and more time has been spent to beautify the background of every scene, to reproduce with fidelity both ancient and modern settings as they actually appeared. Where in the old days we saw crude canvas settings costing comparatively few dollars, we now frequently see many extremely elaborate settings costing thousands of dollars and conceived and executed by some of the greatest artists in the world. Noted artists like Joseph Urban and Hugo Ballin have devoted their time and energy to creating for the screen settings of rare artistic beauty.

The Four Uses of Setting.—But the evolution of setting in the photoplay has not stopped here. The setting may also be used (1) to help along the action of your plot, (2) to contrast the character of your players, (3) to emphasize the emotion of your plot, and (4) to develop traits of your characters.

1. Effect of Setting on Plot.—To show one way in which the setting may influence the action of your photoplay, sup-pose, for example, that a young girl of very ordinary education and of poor circumstances falls in love with and is married to a young man about her own age. It is quite obvious that the future events of this young girl's life might vary greatly depending upon whether or not this young man's home, to which she is taken, is an environment to which she is accustomed, or whether it is an environment entirely above and beyond her. If this young girl is familiar with and accustomed to the -environment, or setting, to which she is transported, events, as far as the setting is concerned, will proceed in an orderly manner. But, if she is transported to an environment with which she is entirely out of harmony, where the customs and practices are foreign to her, it is plain that the setting in which she is placed may have a great effect upon the future events of her life.

2. How Setting Contrasts Character.—If the heroine of your play is a wealthy young lady accustomed to all the luxuries of life, and the hero is a poor young man who had always been accustomed to depend upon his own resources, the great contrast in their characters could be brought out better by means of setting—that is, by placing the young lady in an atmosphere of luxury and refinement and the young man in a home of the poor in an undesirable section—than it could be by any explanation you might make. In other words, contrast or harmony of character may be emphasized by setting.

3. How Setting Emphasizes Emotion.—Emotion in your play may be greatly emphasized by the setting. A tragic scene may be emphasized by gloomy surroundings, or it may be made the more tragic if it takes place in a wretched tenement room. On the other hand, great grief sometimes may be made the more poignant if it occurs amid gay and brilliant surroundings, for the contrast is then greater. A love scene may be made more romantic if it occurs in a moonlit garden rather than on a crowded subway. In other words, there is a fitness in events and places. The sunrise calls for optimism; twilight is more suited to reverie. The old, dismal house with the green shutters and decayed garden fairly emanates mystery or tragic events.

4. Effect of Setting on Character.—What a man is depends largely upon the interaction of two forces---namely, the tendencies of his nature and the ultimate effect upon him of his environment. Your characters may have certain characteristics due to heredity, but their environment will deter-mine to a considerable degree the development of those characteristics. The fate of your heroine will depend, to some ex-tent, upon the character of the environment in which you place her; and the success or failure of your hero likewise will be determined partly by his surroundings.

All About the Historical Setting.—No matter how tempting it may be, do not write plays requiring castles of old, ancient costumes, or antique customs. Occasionally plays of this type are produced, but only when they are so strong and vital that the difficulties of production are overbalanced by many good qualities. And, even in such cases, the stories are generally written by staff-writers, not purchased from outsiders. The photoplay with the historical setting has more or less of a limited appeal. Of course, you may say that "The Three Musketeers" was very successful. But you must remember that this story was written by Dumas years ago ; he was writing of the life that he knew, with the very buildings and streets about which he wrote before him, in most cases. Being a Frenchman, he was writing about his own race and was able to inject a wealth of observation and racial feeling, not to mention historical knowledge. You would not be personally acquainted with a historical setting, and you cannot give out something you have not first taken in. In the words of D. W. Griffith: "Your own street is full of romances, tragedies, comedies. The human comedy is a never-ending one. You know about your street. You do not know about the streets of Madrid or the streets of Philadelphia in 1776. You do not know about the streets of Belgium in 1914, nor Fifth Avenue in 183o. You do know Main Street today. Write about it !"

While it is not advisable to write a photoplay in which all the scenes are of a historical nature, yet it is frequently advantageous and desirable to introduce a few historical scenes of a more or less allegorical nature. In many of the best photoplays produced, the director frequently fades out of modern events and shows a few scenes of long ago, in costume, to heighten the effect and bring out a certain point of the story.

Why Exterior Settings Are Important.—In every photoplay you write, part of the action, if not most of it, should take place out of doors. A picture is more successful when nature is used as a background—when the air, clouds, falling snow, rain, and moving trees are made part of the story. There is psychology in this. One's spirits are always higher when out in the sun and fresh air. And so it is with theatergoers—they will enjoy far more the action of your play if most of it takes place in the open—around beautiful lakes, peaceful valleys, quiet gardens, open roads, flower fields, velvety lawns, on the bridle path, the tennis court, in the swimming pool.

Writing: The Photoplay Title

Increasing Importance of the Title.—There has been a style in tides somewhat as in dress. At one time it was customary to use a certain fixed order of words. Later the fad was to use the leading character's name as a title. Then titles of color were used. But all the while, little real attention was paid to the importance of the title. Most writers were content to affix to their manuscript a general expression vaguely related to the plot, and to let it go at that.

Of late, however, writers have begun to give the title its proper share of attention. They have come to realize that there are three important elements in successful photoplay writing; and, if a writer masters these, he is quite apt to be successful. These three elements in order of importance are: plot, synopsis, and title. If you can evolve an original plot, comprehensively outline it in a well-written synopsis, and pre-cede the whole with a satisfactory title, success is yours. As indicated above, plot is by far the most important element in photoplay writing. The ability to write a good synopsis is next in importance. The aptitude of selecting a good title is third. These three things form the successful triumvirate of successful photoplay writing.

Why the Title Is Important.—There are two things that enable producers and exhibitors to advertise their photo-plays successfully to the public. First, the "star" featured in the picture ; and, second, the title of the play.

As time goes on, the star becomes less important. People are beginning to awaken to a realization of the fact that a highly celebrated actor featured in a play does not necessarily mean an entertaining production. In a great many instances, film companies have gone to enormous expense to employ grand opera stars or stage favorites to appear in pictures, because of the advertising value of their names. Frequently, these plays have been utter failures. For example, William Collier, a successful actor on the legitimate stage, was employed by Mack Sennett to appear in a few comedies. Mr. Collier's name had great advertising value; but, when his pictures were produced, they were generally said to be failures. Mr. Collier is funny of word and manner; therefore, he failed in the photoplay. DeWolf Hopper was featured at considerable expense in "Don Quixote?' Mr. Hopper is a successful stage comedian. His picture 'Don Quixote" was not highly satisfactory. His style of humor was not adapted to the photoplay. Mary Garden, a talented and successful grand opera star, was pronounced by most critics a failure in "Thais." All this goes to demonstrate that, in the future, producers are likely to pay less attention to the star and more attention to the play. The story itself will come into its own; therefore, the story's title will be the main means of advertising the play and will assume more importance than it does to-day. Even at present the title of a photoplay often has more "box-office" value than anything else. Knowing, then, that the title is of such tremendous importance, the new writer ought to know exactly what it should do.

The First Duties of a Title.—The main purpose of the title is to advertise your play to the public. It may or it may not give a correct idea of what your play is about. This is not absolutely necessary. But it must arrest the attention of the playgoer and make him want to see your photoplay.

Before a title can appeal to the public, however, the play must be accepted for production by some film company. But, before your play can be accepted, it must appeal to some editor. It is essential, therefore, that the title attract the editor.

You may think the editorial appeal is of secondary importance—that the plot of your story is supreme. True, it is; but you may be surprised to know the great attraction there often is in a good title. In looking through manuscripts, the editor often becomes very interested in a manuscript, without knowing anything about the plot, simply because the title appeals to him. Even before he reads a word of your synopsis, he is interested in your work—he is deeply interested in it because you have piqued his curiosity. Perhaps you appealed to his personal interest. Maybe your title created in his mind an image of many dollars to be made through successfully advertising your play. Perhaps he immediately sensed the drawing power of your title. But, no matter what interests him, it is a fact that he must be interested; therefore, your first duty is to select a title that will appeal to the editor.

Why Your Title Must Appeal to the Public.—Appealing to the public is a different matter. Guy De Maupassant aptly said : "The public is composed of numerous groups crying out; console me, amuse me, satisfy me, touch me, make me dream, laugh, shudder, weep, think." And your title should do at least one of these things. It is not possible, perhaps, to incorporate all of these elements in one title; but, in some way, you must select a group of words that will "get to" the man on the street, the average fellow, the type that is in the great majority. Do not make the mistake of trying to select a high-sounding or pretty title. If you do, it will go over the head of the average person—and the vast majority of playgoers are "average" people.

If you will select a title that piques curiosity, you will find that your work will be given an instantaneous chance to prove itself worth while. If you stop to think, you know this is true. How often have you seen people stop in front of a motion picture theater and look at the posters and pictures advertising the production inside?

You, yourself, perhaps often have decided to go to a certain theater, and, when you arrived outside and saw what was on the bill, turned away, unsatisfied, not interested, perhaps even repelled by the title of the play. I once heard a bright man say he didn't care to see Griffith's "The Birth of a Nation," because there was something about the title that somehow made him feel that the production itself was a long-drawn-out, dry, uninteresting affair, even though he had often heard it said that the play was well worth seeing. And it surely was! This is not a criticism of Mr. Griffith's title, but merely an example to show how titles affect people.

Compare the lack of interest in such titles as "The Village Convict," a story by C. H. White, or "Forever," a Paramount Picture, with such suggestive and appealing titles as, "Bought and Paid For," "Fools Paradise," a Cecil B. DeMille Production, or "Dream Street," by D. W. Griffith. The last three titles are not quoted as perfect examples, but merely as being, far more interesting to the average person than most of those we see. Knowing what the title should do, we ought to find out just what constitutes a good title.

What Constitutes a Perfect Title.—A perfect title should be: (1) apt, or appropriate; (2) interesting, or attractive; (3) specific; (4) short; (5) new; (6) literary; (7) sonorous; (8) suggestive. Often it is not possible to incorporate all of these qualities in one title, but you should if you can.

1. Make Your Title Apt.—An apt, appropriate, or fitting, title is one applying particularly to your manuscript. In many cases, the fitting title will not suggest itself until your story is written. Examples of fitting titles are: "The Affairs of Anatol," "Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford," and "The Miracle Man."

2. Make Your Title Interesting.—In your zeal to select a fitting title, do not overlook the fact that it must also be interesting and attractive. It is not necessary to say more here about making titles attractive. This has been covered under the section dealing with appeal to the editor.

3. Make Your Title Specific.—Many beginners, however, fail to make their titles specific. The new writer (not to mention the experienced writer who ought to know better) is apt to handicap his work with such general titles as, "Two Friends," by Kipling; or "A Love Story," by Webster. Avoid this. Narrow your title down to some specific phase of your plot. If possible, make it a title applying only to your particular manuscript, as O'Brien did when he thought of "The Diamond Lens." Also consider the following: "Sentimental Tommy," "The Copperhead," and "Her Husband's Trade Mark."

4. Make Your Title Short.—Try to make your title from three to five words in length. It is apt to be clumsy and awkward if it is longer. Do not, however, go to the extreme and make your title so short that it is vague and meaningless. Edward Belamy did this when he named one of his productions "Lost."

5. Select a Fresh Title.—By a new title is meant one that is fresh and unhackneyed. The commonplace title often spoils a play. Who would want to see a play with a title like "All's Well That Ends Well," when just around the corner they were exhibiting a play with such a fresh title as "On with the Dance?"

6. A Literary Title Is Desirable.—It is not absolutely essential that the photoplaywright select a literary title—one the words of which are arranged in exact rhetorical order and bring out shades of beauty and meaning. I say it is not essential, because the average playgoer might not be any more impressed with a rhetorical title than with any other; in fact, a large proportion of the people who view photoplays might be more impressed with an illiterate title. However, if it is possible for you to choose between two otherwise equally good titles, one lacking in literary qualities and the other possessing them, by all means choose the latter. There are two titles often given as examples of literary quality and the lack of it: "A Purple Rhododendron," by John Fox, Jr., is literary "A Ride With a Mad Horse in a Freight Car," by W. H. H. Murray, is quite the opposite.

7. Make Your Title Sonorous.—A sonorous title sounds well; its words and syllables follow each other in a smooth, pleasant, attractive manner. Compare the euphonious qualities of "Ligeia," by Poe, with "The Betrothal of Elypholate Yingst," by Helen Martin, or "The Glenmutchkin Railway," by Aytoun. In making your title smooth and pleasant in sound, do not go to the extreme and so weaken it that it fails to draw attention to your work.

8. Select a Suggestive Title.—A suggestive title brings up pictures in the reader's mind. For instance, "The Upper Berth" starts the mind thinking of certain interesting possibilities is suggestive-and makes you want to read the story. "The Severed Hand" is suggestive of mystery; therefore, it is interesting. "Marjorie Daw" suggests the character story; "The Deserted House" suggests the story of setting. "The Cannibals, and Mr. Buffum" suggests humor, while "The Courting of Dinah Shadd" suggests love, humor, and, perhaps, character. It will be well to call the beginner's attention to the fact that it is important, if practicable, to have a title suggest love, for love appeals to nearly everyone. Examples of other suggestive titles: "Enchantment," "Don't Change Your Husband," "The Woman Thou Gayest Me," "The Valley of the Giants," "Are You a Mason," and "The Inside of the Cup."

Of course, it is a difficult matter to say exactly why a title pleases or displeases, why it interests or fails to interest, be-cause different people have different tastes; but it is quite likely that its effectiveness depends in a great measure on this quality of suggestion. It is not even an exaggeration to say that many titles are poor because they lack suggestive qualities. Consequently, it should be the photoplaywright's constant aim to select a title that will "make pictures in the other fellow's mind."

How to Choose the Title.-There is a simple, easy way to select a title for your manuscript. First analyze your plot; find out what phase of your plot distinguishes your play from other photoplays written around the same, or similar, basic idea. The average play is built up of common incidents which have been used again and again by other writers. But, in an original manuscript, these incidents are carefully arranged and put together in such a manner that, somewhere in the script, probably near the climax, the play takes a turn, or twist, which makes the work different from other plays made up of the same elements. Right here is where you should select the title. Make it tell something about that special phase of your plot, that new "twist" you put into your work, and you will find that, in most cases, it will be apt and specific. If your plot is interesting, your title will be attractive. Then it is up to you to refine it in such a manner that it will be sonorous, suggestive, and literary. But, above all, make your title first interesting, next suggestive, then new, appropriate, and sonorous, and, finally, literary.

When to Choose the Title.—The title is first in position on any manuscript. This does not mean, however, that you must have a title before you write a play. The fact of the matter it, 'tis wise and often necessary to select the title last. This is due to the fact that a writer may understand his theme and know what his characters are going to do, even have his script worked out in his own mind to the minutest detail before he begins to write, yet he may not have the faintest idea what the title is going to be. So that, in most cases, it is necessary to wait and select the title after the play is finished.

Titles selected before the script is written are generally vague and uninteresting. If selected last, they are more apt to be specific and appropriate.

Taking a Clever Title and Building a Play Around It. —In some cases, however, a title first suggests itself, then, in turn, suggests a story to be built around the title. That is, having thought of a good expression for a title, a certain train of thought is started in an author's mind. Thus he is able to construct a play around the title.

D. W. Griffith's famous play "Intolerance" is a good example. Mr. Griffith undoubtedly had the title of this play in mind before the script was constructed. He had been turning over in', his mind for a long time the fact that an intolerant condition of mind, or action, on the part of any individual, or association of individuals, is harmful to the general well-being of society. He knew that intolerance had been in many in-stances the curse of a nation. Acting on this knowledge, he constructed a master play around the title; a play dealing with four distinct epochs of history, each epoch closely related in motive to the other, and the whole cleverly portraying the evil influence of intolerance.

The titles of plays constructed in this manner usually are too vague and unspecific. As a rule, they sum up the play's theme in a few words. As far as the title is concerned, therefore, this is not the best way to work. The new writer perhaps will write better plays and think of better titles if he writes his plays first and selects his titles last.

What Titles to Avoid.-Do not handicap your manuscript with a hackneyed, commonplace title like, "A Little Child Shall Lead Them." No one would want to see a play with such a title if he could see "Forbidden Fruit."

Don't choose a general title like, "A Love Story," when there are plenty you can find that will apply particularly to the manuscript, as does "A Passion in the Desert."

Don't condemn your play to defeat by labeling it with an uninteresting title, such as, "The Village Convict," when there are so many that will make a person deeply anxious to see your play. Consider "Heart of Darkness," by Joseph Conrad, "Old Wives For New," "The Red Peacock," or "Excuse My Dust."

Don't make your play objectionable by using a sensational title like, "In Love With the Czarina," when there are many temperate phrases to serve your purpose.

Don't reveal your plot in your title, as Poe did in "The Premature Burial," unless you intentionally do so as he did. In this case, he wanted his readers, even before they read his story, to know that there would be a premature burial. He intended to arouse their interest in this manner and surprise them at the end. To do this is such an unusual procedure, however, and requires such delicate treatment, that the be-ginner had better avoid it.

Don't handicap your manuscript with a depressing, sorrowful, gloomy title, such as, "The Convict's Return." There are so many pleasant things to advertise to the public.

Shun the or and and style of title used in dime novels. "The Test, or Doing His Bit."

Avoid alliterative titles, such as, "The Pit and the Pendulum." Many critics consider this title good; others think it is not. At any rate, Poe was treading on dangerous ground when he selected it.

Avoid the newspaper title, "Saved by a Bootblack"; or extremely fantastical titles like, "A Day on Mars"; or anecdotal, "A Trip to New York"; or repulsive, as, "A Murder in the Rue Morgue."

Writing: The Photoplay Stage

Its Scope.—The scope, or view, encompassed by a photo-play camera is commonly called the "photoplay stage," no matter whether in a studio or out-of-doors. The photoplay stage, then, may seem to the beginner to be quite a large area; but, in reality, it is not so large as it at first seems.

The fact of the matter is, when an actor is standing within fifteen o twenty feet of the camera, he must be cautious in his movements or he will get out of the picture; that is, he will step outside the range of the camera, and will not appear on the screen. In writing your synopsis, therefore, you must not try to make any of the action envelop a great area. If an interior, it is impossible to show all of a room. Only part of it, perhaps half, can be used.

Lighting in the Studio.—An up-to-date studio is thoroughly equipped with high-powered lights, which make it possible to take a picture at any time of the day or night, without respect to the sun. These lights throw a peculiar blue-green color over everybody, but make the taking of a picture at any time a simple matter.

But, in developing a plot, the beginner must be careful how he introduces candles, lanterns, lamps, and the like, into his manuscript. Do not try to use scenes that depend for their success upon difficult lighting effects, unless you thoroughly understand studio lighting. The best way to be sure not to attempt impossible lighting effects is to study carefully the different photoplays you see on the screen and notice the diverse styles of lighting. Follow other writers' methods.

Limitations and Restrictions of the Photoplay.—Do not attempt the impracticable in your photoplay. Nearly, everything is possible in photoplay producing, but many things are impracticable. It would be possible to have the villain in your story abduct the heroine and carry her away in a dirigible, but we do not believe your manuscript would be accepted if you wrote such impracticable situations.

Do not make it necessary for any of the actors in your drama, or any of the studio people, to risk their lives in order to produce your work. Of course, many "risky" scenes have been, and always will be, photographed ; but, if this is to be done, the writer had better leave it to the producer himself, and not try to write it into his own manuscript of his own initiative. If the editor finds your work justifies such a risk, he will see that it is taken.

Also avoid writing about action requiring extraordinary climatic effects and unusual out-of-door settings. Don't insist that the sun shine in a certain scene, or that it rain in another, or that there be a snowstorm in a third. Leave all this to the producer. Only write plays dealing with special settings of this character when you actually know that a certain company is in the market for them.

Remember, too, that the photoplay camera is very heavy and must be set upon an extremely strong tripod. Therefore, it is not easy for the cameraman to climb around in trees and get in the uncomfortable positions a tourist does with a kodak. Of course, such things are done but generally of the director's own free will. It is better for the beginner not to write about strange, difficult action and settings, leaving this work to more experienced writers.

When writing your play, constantly aim to spare the producer all unnecessary expense. If, however, your play really deserves a big scene, introduce it, but be impartial in your judgment, and don't let the fact that the script is yours carry you away, while you locate action in such impossible places that your work is doomed to failure.

Writing: What To Write About

Why the Human Element Is Important.—The human element-heart interest and human interest—sells more manuscripts than anything else. No matter how cleverly your work is written, how carefully constructed your plot, how gripping the events, it will fail if it lacks heart interest or human interest. You must capture the interest and smypathy of your audience. This is the charm that sells manuscripts. Make the public admire your hero and heroine. Make them think. Make them dislike your "villain." Move them to laughter, tears, even hatred. To do this you must give them human nature.

The quickest way to reach a person's mind is through his heart. Love appeals to the heart; therefore, nearly every successful photoplay contains heart interest, or a touch of love interest. Heart interest, of course, is not love interest. Heart interest may exist without love interest, but love interest cannot exist without heart interest. Your work will be cold, barren, lifeless if it does not contain heart interest in some form. And it is only in remote cases that a photoplay meets with any great success if it does not contain a love story. On the other hand, some of the greatest successes of all time have been written around love. Most people are subject to love at one time or another. Consequently, a love story appeals to the majority. No matter how young or old your audience is, it likes to see love portrayed. The youthful gaze at it in anticipation; the aged, in fond remembrance. And remember that the average person, when witnessing your play, unconsciously thinks he is actually living the incidents presented on the screen. The fifteenyear-old girl, the middle-aged matron, the sweet-faced grand-mother, all imagine, for the moment, that they are the object of the manly hero's ardent love. This is why the photoplay is so popular. It lifts people out of the commonplace things of life and puts them on a higher level where they long to be. A love story will elevate them in this manner more quickly than any other type of manuscript.

Some Pertinent Suggestions.—Henry Christine Warnack has so cleverly written on this subject that his words are here quoted in full:

"Why is it, since everybody is trying to write motion picture plays that the studios all over the country cry out that they are starving for stories?

"Mostly, the answer is that our stories are not human. They are things we think up. They are mechanically clever. They have plot and action, but they are not human. They have artifice, but they are also artificial. They have none of that spontaneity of the thing that springs from the heart. They are not written with a glow and they bring no new joy to the beholder when once they have been filmed. They have none of that stuff that makes the bud and bloom of spring-time. They amuse the mind, but the laughter they provoke is not from the heart, and they have no tears.

"Speaking of the human note in stories, at least two of David Wark Griffith's recent great successes have been based on the simplest of stories wherein he has the leading characters merely a girl and a boy. He gives them no other name than these, nor has he need of other names. Life holds nothing more wonderful than a girl and a boy and the love between them that springs like a pure flower from holy ground. Two shall look and tremble; afterwards, nations follow.

"We have been striving too much for effects and have not thought enough about naturalness. We have been fascinated by the magic of the camera and have let fine mechanics put the text out of mind. We can have only one item, and that is life.

"One thing we dare not forget; it is that the world is starving for love. Any story that has not love for its cornerstone is short of the greatness belonging to drama. All other passions have their place in the wonderful fabric of life, but love excels them all.

"Today the good story must also have purpose and it must have light. Love is the degree of understanding. Sacrifice has such a wide appeal because it manifests the unselfishness of a great love and becomes its understudy. Nobility is never blind.

"Generally speaking, I should say that the safest rule for story building is to choose a theme and a set of circumstances that contain and express deep feeling in a way that will arouse the feelings of an audience. Let a story be flawless in all other respects, yet if it cannot make the people feel frequently, I maintain that it is not a success. I place the quality to arouse the feelings of the public as of first value in any story, and the more natural and unstrained the effort in this line appears to be, the surer will be the effect."

The Popular Appeal: The great majority of the people who go to see photoplays are of the middle class. Better pictures are Constantly being made—pictures that will appeal to the more educated—but the average motion picture theater would have to close its doors if it did not exhibit stories that reach the heart of the average individual. The photoplay is a cheap amusement ; that is why it is so well patronized. The average working than can take his entire family to see a photoplay for no more than it would cost him to buy one cheap seat at a theatrical performance. Hence, the great need of pleasing the ordinary individual.

Write about the things that are popular with the public today—the problems of marriage, the pleasures and sorrows of average, every-day folks. Do not forget that interesting drama is just as prevalent in the lives of all commuters and straphangers as it is in the lives of any other class. Some of the most absorbing plots may be built up from the misunderstandings which are bound to arise between husband and wife, who are really greatly in love with each other. Write of the grief you have seen parents undergo. Make photoplays of the desires, ambitions, sacrifices, or blasted hopes of the people who live next door to you or in the little cottage just around the corner. Editors know that theatergoers are intensely interested in stories dealing with the problems of people in the world about them--of the toiling mother, the overworked father, the wall-flower girl, the ambitious young man, the romantic hero. The story of the young man who delays marriage to support his aged mother is of more vital interest to theater-goers than the story of Hercules Hal who escapes from man-eating savages in the South Sea Islands.

In your haste to please the majority do not overlook the minority. Simply remember that anyone enjoys best the things he understands most. Therefore, while all cannot understand some things, the average playgoer is not necessarily unintelligent. The production and success of such plays as "Les Miserables," proves that the average American enjoys high-class plays; but the probabilities are that he enjoys more those plots dealing with every-day American events, such as, "What's Your Hurry?", with Wallace Reid, or, "Enchantment," featuring Marion Davies.

In this connection it will be well to note what Ludovic Halevy, the French novelist, has to say: "We must not write simply for the refined, the blase, and the squeamish. We must write for that man who goes there on the street with his nose in his newspaper and his umbrella under his arm. We must write for that fat, breathless woman whom I see from my window, as she painfully climbs into the Odeon omnibus. We must write, consequently, for the bourgeois, if it were only to refine them, to make them less bourgeois. And if I dared, I should say that we must write even for fools."

What a world-wise man was Halevy.

Why You Should Choose a Familiar Subject—In casting about for suitable subjects for your plays, do not make the mistake of attempting to build a play around some theme with which you are not familiar. If you have always lived in a small town, do not attempt to write plays of city life. You may be able to do it and do it well; but the safer procedure is to choose a subject from your own surroudings. There al-ways will be a demand for stories with rural settings, so there really is no good reason why you should turn to the White Lights for material. There are just as many plots in your life, even if you live in the country, as there are in the lives of city folks. Perhaps more. Of course, it is much easier to imagine you see more romance in the other fellow's existence! This is probably due to the fact that most people think that their life is more humdrum and less romantic than the lives of all other people. But you should not be led astray by such thoughts, Apply your imagination to the events constantly happening all around you—even in your own life—and you will find no difficulty in choosing a subject with which you are perfectly familiar.

You must realize that romance and adventure is everywhere about you in your daily life if you will only see it. Look at O. Henry. He saw adventure on the subway, in tenements, and in the streets. As a result, his short stories have proved to be a permanent contribution to the best in American literature. Look at homely events of your daily life with clear, truthful eyes, and you will then see the beauty, the brightness, and the blackness of same. Tell of them with feeling.

You probably will not, however, be able to find material in your own life, and the lives of your friends, which can be used exactly in the form in which you find it. You will have to take out certain elements and insert others. Real life rarely makes suitable photoplay material exactly as it occurs. Here, again, you must use your imagination.

There is no reason why a person living in the country should not write of the city; but, since there is plenty of material in every life, why try to write business plays, or society dramas, or war plays, if you have spent most of your days in an entirely different atmosphere? Why risk failure through ignorance of your subject? In order to be salable, a manuscript must be sincere. Before you can write sincerely, you must have an intimate knowledge of your subject. This is the best reason in the world why you should confine your early efforts to the writing of those things with which you are well acquainted.

On the other hand, if you live in the city, do not attempt stories with a rural flavor. The city furnishes enough elements without your having to resort to outside influence. Take New York's East Side, for example, or Wall Street, or the gay life of Broadway. There is so much material for the city writer that he never should be obliged to look outside for suitable themes.

"If you live in the country, try to put the country on paper. If you are a dweller in the cities, seek the streets and city life for inspiration. An editor from the West commented the other day on the splendid field lying fallow in New York's East Side, and yet it is seldom that a story of the East Side is written that `gets over,' not because there are no photo-playwrights on the East Side, but because they are all busy writing society plays and stories of business life, passing unheeded the wonderful pathos of the section of the town in which they live. With half the imagination they use in map-ping out a story of high society, they could weave about the life they see the tender veil of poetry and make the sordid almost sacred with tenderness of touch. In the same way, the girl who lives uptown wants to write about settlement workers and Salvation Army lassies, and the absence of convincing color sends the story back."

Going Beyond the Range of Personal Experience.—By advising the writer to treat only of those subjects with which he is familiar it is not meant that he must write only of those things coming within the range of his personal experience.

Marion Crawford and George Eliot wrote of experiences never felt and places never seen. They had great imaginations. Furthermore, they knew the art of building a story around what might be aptly termed "second-hand knowledge." That is, if they couldn't get material by personal experience, they got it from friends, or acquaintances, or books, or periodicals; but, no matter how they got it, they got it just the same, and they got it correctly. Therefore, their work was sincere.

You can do the same. If, after you have succeeded in selling your stories dealing with subjects well-known to you, you decide to write about foreign themes, first read extensively on the subject. Find out the truth about the thing you want to treat of. Look it up in books; go to the library if you have one in your city; read what books are in your family and those you can borrow from your friends. No matter how you get your information, be sure you do get it; and be sure that you get it true to life. Then it will be reasonably safe for you to attempt the theme in mind.

There is this element of uncertainty, however. You may know thoroughly the conditions and circumstances about what you intend to write; but the fact that they are not your own experiences may make it rather difficult for you to correctly interpret the different characters' reactions to certain circumstances. It is a difficult matter to say just what a person will do under certain conditions, and, unless you have "gone through" it yourself, you may not be able to tell it sincerely.

Jules Verne wrote of conditions and things never seen. He wasn't an extensive traveler, yet to read some of his books you might be inclined to think he had traveled all over the world. He thoroughly and convincingly wrote "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea," yet we all know he was never that far down. In fact, he had but very little personal knowledge of the sea. He also wrote, "A Tour of the World in Eighty Days," but he never toured the world in that time. The secret of his success was great imagination and extensive reading.

But, where Jules Verne succeeded, it is safe to say that most beginners would fail. Therefore, it is better for them not to make the attempt. Until your name and work become familiar to a number of editors, you should confine your efforts to writing about your own experiences; that is, about themes with which you are familiar.

Write of People and Places That Interest You.—It is important that you write on subjects interesting to yourself, or with which you are in sympathy. A writer cannot interest an audience in his work unless he himself is interested in it. If you are going to arouse any passion in your spectators, if you are going to make them feel anger, hatred, contempt, you, yourself, must first feel it.

Suppose stories of poverty and tenement life are popular. Determined to deal with a popular subject, you decide to write a play of tenement life. Perhaps you have some knowledge of the subject, but are not particularly interested in it because it does not appeal to you. In fact, all the environment of the tenement district may be somewhat repulsive to your tastes. Still you are anxious to sell your work, so attempt the subject. You spend a lot of time on your play. Discouraging as it may seem, the chances are the script will never sell, for it will not be possible for you to inject the necessary "punch" into the subject, not being deeply interested in tenement life. A similar script written by one who had done tenement work of his own free will would readily find a sale, all other things being equal, while yours would be rejected.

Choose Unusual Subjects.—It is also vitally important that, in choosing a subject, you select something out of the ordinary. Try to avoid the commonplace themes which have been worked to death by the average writer. Or, if you must treat of a subject -rather ordinary, try to write about it in an unusual manner.

Do not, however, be grotesque in your attempt to be unusual. In your effort to be out of the ordinary, do not be impractical or impossible. With the possible and practicable always in view, make a tremendous effort to get out of the rut, to traverse untrodden fields. No matter where you live, or in what circumstances you are, there are everywhere about you plenty of subjects which easily could be worked into very unusual productions.

Don't hesitate to write about the unusual for fear that it will be difficult to find an editor to produce your work. Editors are constantly looking for things out of the ordinary; and, if you can produce an unusual photoplay, still true to life and practicable, you will have no difficulty whatever in selling it. The chances are ten to one that it will bring you much more than a commonplace production.

Be Careful How You Create Sympathy: We have seen that plot is a struggle, a never-ending conflict. Before there can be struggle, however, there must be antagonism. Each play must therefore exhibit a protagonist and an antagonist. To oppose the good in your play, there must be evil. But, in writing of evil characters, you must be exceedingly careful not to let them perform actions which might gain sympathy for them. In other words, the people who witness your play must be constantly in sympathy with your hero and not with his opponent. Be careful to create very little, if any, pity for the evil-doer. Unless you are cautious in this respect, the audience will be dissatisfied when things go against the villain.

In order to make your play a success, your characters must arouse the sympathy of the audience. Therefore, in writing a play in which the hero commits a wrong, it becomes vitally necessary for you to show that there was a powerful motive for his act—that it could not be avoided—if you expect the audience to be in sympathy with him, though not necessarily approving his act.

On the other hand, when a crime is committed by an antagonistic character, you must be careful to prove that he was not morally justified in committing the crime. You must do this in order that the audience will not pity him. The evil deeds of dark forces in your play should not be morally justifiable, however; but they must be actuated by a fully sufficient motive.

Importance of the Happy Ending.—There are three things without which any life is sadly incomplete: "Faith, hope and love." It has been said that the greatest of these is love. However that may be, it is certainly true that the average person's life is made up, in no small degree, of hope. Much of life is built upon hope. Hope often makes life endurable—the hope that things will adjust themselves eventually, or be better to-morrow, and that everything will come out all right in the end. The average individual takes up his burden each day with the expectation that, by so doing, he will eventually reach a brighter goal. In fact, most of us constantly center our minds on the hope element.

It is the most natural thing in the world, then, that people should look for hope in photoplays. While your characters are undergoing a severe trial, the audience is constantly hoping that their misfortunes are only temporary, and that, in the end, better conditions will prevail. For this reason, the tragic ending has steadily declined in popularity. We have reached the point where it is almost impossible to sell a manuscript unless it has a happy ending.

This does not mean that there must not be an element of tragedy in your plot. There is no reason why misfortune should not be allowed to overtake some of your characters; this may be desirable, even necessary. But before your play ends, the majority of your characters should find happiness, peace, and love. Before the final scene of your play vanishes from the screen, the lives of your main characters should be filled with hope and happiness—if this be realistically possible.

Do not understand by this that, in the last scene of your play, the hero and heroine must fondly embrace, or hurriedly marry, or go through any of the "stock room" endings tacked on most photoplays. It is possible, and altogether desirable, to end your script in a different way. But no matter just how it ends, no matter whether the girl actually marries the boy or not, the last scenes should at least suggest peace and happiness, in order that the audience will leave the theater feeling that the future is hopeful.

The vital need of the happy ending becomes readily apparent when you recall that most people, in watching a photo-play, unconsciously live the events themselves. If they see an interesting play, during which much misfortune befalls the main characters, but happiness comes at last, they are satisfied. But if misfortune all through the play is capped with a tragic ending, the audience is apt to take it all to heart, and leave the theater in an unhappy frame of mind. This is not desirable' for reasons too obvious to mention.

What is Meant by the Picturesque Element.—Every photoplay should contain the picturesque element. Some themes, otherwise good in themselves,. necessitate homely treatment; perhaps the background is lacking in beauty. But, even in such extreme cases, it is necessary to add picturesque elements to the plot, not only to make the play more pleasing to the eye, but also by way of contrast.

Background and setting are not of primary importance, but they are important nevertheless. You will find that often one of the most vital elements of attraction in your work will be the setting in which your plot develops. The background in a photoplay is much the same to the photoplay as the setting is to a short story.

Action Must Feature Ending. Your play must end in a way that makes any other ending impossible. The disposition of your characters must be inevitable; as previously stated, the audience must be satisfied that you could not have made any other disposal of them. In other words, your work must have a true ending, it must satisfy. And as you approach this ending, there must be fewer and fewer speeches between your characters and less explanation. The latter part of your play should be nothing but action. This is due to the fact that the human mind begins to slow up after about thirty minutes of attention upon explanatory details. Tests by scientific men have proved this to be true. Therefore, the public does not care to read explanatory detail after the first two and a half or three reels of your play have been placed upon the screen. During the latter part of your production, people want nothing but action. The only time it is permissible to insert subtitles in the latter part of a photoplay is when they are very short speeches of the characters—answers, questions, or short commands.

The first half of your story, then, is merely a foundation for an absorbing climax. The beginning of your work places the characters clearly in the mind of the public and does the preliminary work necessary to interest the audience with the characters so that they will be absorbed in the conflict to follow. Having built up this interest, you must lose no time in leading your characters toward the finale and having one climax grow out of the other and one event follow faster and faster upon the preceding. Your plot should overcome obstacles that may seem unconquerable up to the moment of triumph. And it must move to this satisfying close without injecting unbelieveable events.

Write About People You Know.—Write about the in-tensely human characteristics of people as you know them. Do not be afraid that the lives of the people about you are not sufficiently dramatic or strong enough for a photoplay. Do not get the mistaken idea that in order to depict romance you must show a youthful American of the navy breaking the heart of an unsophisticated Japanese girl amid a hurricane of cherry blossoms. You will make a great mistake if you do this. You should write about the romance of lives about you and not about foreign standards of romance. Use your imagination in determining the aims and ambitions and dreams of the people about you, and banish from your minds the idea that moving picture audiences are interested only in the lives of rich people. Great things and real romance is just as frequent in the lives of the poor, and often more so, than in the lives of the rich. Think how frequently the masterpieces of painting and sculpture depict events in the lives of peasants and toilers. This is probably due to the fact that the poorer classes all over the world cover up their emotions and human qualities less than do the more sophisticated and cultured classes. Therefore, it is possible for a painter or sculptor to look more easily into the soul of a farmer than into the inner being of an artificial duke, whose whole training has taught him to conceal his emotions. Of course, America has no peasant class, but the lives of all Americans, with very few exceptions, are open enough and easy enough for you to look into to find human and very interesting material for endless productions.

Forget Technic.—Remember above all that editors are not interested in reading technical manuscripts. They do not want to read manuscripts developed in any formal style, with the use of cut-backs, fade-out, sub-titles, and so forth. All they want to receive is a clearly written story in less than five thousand words. They want you to forget everything about the writing of your story, to forget all about the technique of scenario writing, even to forget yourself, and merely put down your ideas of life as you know them to exist.

Forget Other Photoplays.—As you develop your plot, and as you begin to write it out on paper, do not think of it with relation to other motion pictures. If possible, forget all other motion pictures. Think only of your own story. The only connection you should have between your story and other pictures is the question of whether or not the action in your photoplay can be depicted on the screen. So you should avoid writing into your synopsis any phrase dealing with "remembered," "thought," "planned"—or any other word that means activity of the human mind with no physical response. Thoughts and remembrances cannot be depicted easily on the screen. You must constantly bear in mind the fact that the photoplay deals only with action. Of course, it is possible to have considerable mental action in your production. That is, your characters may be intelligent people and the resultant action of your production would come from a clash of wills, ambitions, or opinions. But you must always remember that the mental activity of your production must be expressed in physical action before it can be photographed. So words, when you are writing a photoplay, should lose their sound in your ears. You should use only words which describe pictures in your own mind. 'You should write more or less in the attitude of a deaf person who depends entirely upon his eyes to see and not upon sound at all.

Do Not Put Too Many Characters in Your Scenes.—Be very careful to see that you inject a variety of scenes into your production. Look over your story carefully to see whether there are not too many big scenes necessitating long-shots, or too many close-up scenes. You must remember always that the best photoplays are those in which there are about an equal number of long-shots and close-ups, or in which there are perhaps just a few more close-up scenes than long-shots. Many very good photoplays have been greatly injured by having too many characters before the camera throughout the bulk of the action. It is practically impossible to show a close-up of more than two faces at one time, therefore, when there are many people in a scene it is always necessary to move the camera back. When this is done, personal interest is lost.

Remember the Camera Eye Is Limited in Scope.—Always remember that the eye of the camera does not take in as much as your eye. Therefore, when a large number of people or great crowd is to be brought upon a scene, it is necessary to move the camera back. And it is a difficult matter to create dramatic effect unless the camera is quite close to the actors. Therefore, a mob scene is only dramatic when you know some one in the mob and are deeply interested in him. Consequently, whenever possible, you should let the camera keep close to your important characters and let it get a good view of their faces; for, after all, it is the faces of your characters, helped along with positive action, that must relate the plot of your production. Your story should be one that faces, plus arms and legs, can tell. No matter how important your story is, or how much it depends upon minds, wills, and ambitions, it must be told through the face. In the words of D. W. Griffith, "One good nostril or eye-brow is worth a hundred subtitles."

Write only Plays of Action.—As stated in the chapter devoted to plot in the photoplay, action is one of the indispensable requisites of a successful photoplay. Motion picture producers are constantly crying for action and more action. They demand plots that move rapidly. A common interpretation of action on the part of the amateur writer is the belief that it concerns merely the physical activity of the characters in the story. The average beginner imagines that if he can keep his characters racing from scene to scene he has achieved action. This is a very mistaken idea. While physical action of characters is desirable in working out the climax of a story, yet it is activity of an entirely other type that is necessary. The kind of action wanted is that which involves the plot itself and its component situations. In other words, action in a photoplay means that the presentation of the scenes themselves in the building of the plot should progress rapidly. Event after event in the development of your plot must move swiftly to the climax. You may see photoplays in which scene after scene is presented in which the physical exertion of the characters is practically at a minimum and yet you will be in-tensely gripped by the rapid movement of the story itself. In other words, real action does not concern the physical movement of your characters but merely the situations of your plot as they follow each other toward the conclusion of your story. Always keep the action of your production moving as rapidly as possible. Devote as much of your synopsis as possible to the action of the plot itself. Do not wander into unnecessary by-paths that have no direct effect upon the climax of your story. Do not indulge in unnecessary descriptive matter.

Keep the Mortality List Down.—Let few of your characters die. If it is necessary to eliminate a character in your story, do not kill him off just to get rid of him. If you are tempted to do this, pause a moment and see if you cannot find a better disposition of the character. There are many ways if you will only stop to figure them out. Of course, it is frequently necessary for death to take part in the construction of a photoplay. Yet there is no excuse for the whole-sale murder and destruction which takes place in many productions. There is a certain depressing effect accompanying death and it is a good idea to get away from it as much as possible.

Remember the Public.—Do not forget that your photoplay is written for the benefit of the average American citizen, his wife, and his children. When writing photoplays you are very much in the position of a merchant who has some wares to sell. If you had an opportunity to sell one of two articles, one of which was in great national demand and the other in demand only by a very limited class of people, you would not hesitate a moment to sell the former article. It is the same in writing for the screen. You are creating something to market. You want to appeal to the greatest number of people possible. Therefore, you must write to please the average person, who is greatly in the majority. The most successful photoplays are those in which the author has been very careful to please the average person. The most unsuccessful writers of to-day are those who go blindly ahead and write something which pleases themselves regardless of public taste. Do not scoff at the public's taste. Do not think that you can force down the throat of the public something you think they ought to have, something they do not want. No person or group of persons can dictate the kind of entertainment the public is to have. To be successful, you must be guided by the public it-self. Remember this always.

Be Logical.—Shun coincidence. The public has stood about as much as it cares to stand in the matter of coincidence. To-day you must be logical. If your hero is to appear suddenly at the crucial moment to save the heroine from death, there must be a logical explanation of how the hero learned of the girl's whereabouts, how he happened to get there just in time. It will not do to have your hero just happen to be around at the right time. There must be a logical explanation of his presence. Of course, it is true that life itself is often made up of coincidence, but such events do not ring true on the screen. Motion picture audiences demand that everything be logical. Otherwise your drama will turn out to be a comedy in the eyes of the public. So if any important phase of your plot is based upon coincidence, it would be a good idea to dispose of the event and work out another solution. Of course, it may be permissible to bring in the element of coincidence in some of the less important situations of your production, but you should never let coincidence play the leading role in the main event. If you will simply consider the situations of your plot a little carefully, you will find that it will be a simple matter to turn coincidence into an absolutely logical happening.

Remember the Girl Who Works.—The girl who works should form an interesting topic for many of your best photo-plays. There are many plots in her life due to the fact that she comes in contact with hundreds of men, where her mother met but few, and she is brought in direct contact with every phase of industry and life. No matter whether she is a stenographer, a teacher, a model, a clerk, or a settlement worker, the problem is essentially the same. There are countless interesting phases of her life which may be developed into excellent productions. Is a girl justified in using her feminine appeal to secure a position? Just how should she conduct herself to be pleasing to her employer and yet keep a respectful distance? How much can a girl "make up" when applying for a position? Should a girl strive to make herself exceedingly attractive when applying for a position, or should she merely try to create an air of efficiency? To what extent should she mingle with male employees around her? Should she adopt the attitude of conversing, laughing, and joking more or less intimately with them in order to preserve harmony, or should she remain aloof and attend, strictly to business? All these questions and problems may form the basis of up-to-date photoplays. All are problems more or less common to the average person and about which you should be able to write with feeling. Every employer should be familiar with all these questions for they are all problems in the daily affairs. He knows how difficult it is to keep the men and the girl employees working side by side without wasting each other's time. Every man who has worked in an office and has witnessed the problems arising from these things ought to be able to write an interesting photoplay. And ambitious girls themselves who have not been contented to remain at home, but who have been desirous to earn their own way, should be able to write intelligently on this subject. The question of personal conduct is an important one. It is common to every one. A photoplay written about this subject will prove very popular.

Inject Comedy Relief.—Put a little comedy in your most serious photoplay. No matter how serious your plot may be, it is a good idea to inject a few humorous scenes, especially in the early part of your story. Not slap-stick comedy, but merely some of the many human events that make one laugh every day—little side-lights on human nature, or little vanities, pretenses, or imaginings. Laughter is a species of excitement that acts as a tonic. A little laugh follows a serious scene, or series of them, as a happy relief and serves to make the seriousness of your production all the more effective by contrast. Do not be afraid to let your hero and heroine do laughable things, provided only that they are not made ridiculous. Of course, there are tense moments in every production when no comedy should be attempted under any circumstances. But there are many lesser important scenes in which it can be advantageously used. You can find hundreds of humorous events to be used in your production by watching people on the street, in public places, in their homes. Even search your own life; it is not so different from that of other people. Think of the embarrassing situations you have seen and how laughable they were nevertheless.

Be Natural.—Do not inject into your plot anything that an ordinary, natural, normal man or woman would not do under ordinary, or occasionally extraordinary, circumstances. The every-day life of everyday people is sufficiently interesting and enthralling to make photoplays. that will prove successful. This is proved by the fact that the best selling novels and most popular photoplays are built around natural events. People have stood for hours on the street waiting to see "Way Down East," simply because it told a story of people with whom the average person was well acquainted. The plot traveled in channels with which the average person was familiar. When produced on the screen, "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" was a very artistic picture in which Mr. Barrymore acted excellently; but the play did not prove very popular with the public and was not a big money-maker. This was because it did not deal with natural events. No one had ever gone through the peculiar experiences of Dr. Jekyll. While one might admire the characterization and wonder at its gruesome effect, there was little personal feeling involved. You will do well to write only plays of natural events.

The Importance of Contrast.—A prominent producer gives this excellent advice relative to contrast in the scenes of your photoplay:

In the first place visualise each scene as a little story in itself. In that way you will make it tell something, and do not forget that each scene is building toward the climax and must have continuity with the whole. Now, when you have laid your story out in scenes think of it as pieces for a patchwork quilt and weave the pattern for your quilt as our grandmothers did, with the dark and light pieces pleasingly balanced.

Let us think of the sad scenes as dark pieces, the happy scenes as light pieces and the turbulent, stormy scenes as striped pieces. Now pick carefully and do not have all your dark pieces on one side and your light ones on the other. You must place each one where it will contrast the other. It is by contrasts that the high lights in a story—or a quilt—are brought out.

A successful director once told me that he directs every scene for contrast; that a death scene is the more gripping if it follows some manifestation of carefreeness and happiness, and that a strong emotional scene is the more impressive if it follows a calm in the story.

To go back to our story quilt. Perhaps we will start with light or happy scenes. After several of these, so that the pattern is pleasingly on its way, we will take a few dark ones. Then, just as it seems the dark ones are going to predominate we will put in another light one. Building this way we will work up to the climax or motif of the pattern. Then we will use a striped piece—or turbulent scene. That piece, or scene, will contain the "punch," as motion-picture folk say, of the entire work. It must be placed carefully, so as to get the full value.

Satisfy Market Demands: When writing your plays, keep one eye on your script and the other on the photoplay market. There are certain types of plays that editors do not want, and other types that they are mighty anxious to get. It goes without saying that you want to write the latter; therefore, before you begin to write any particular type, find out if it is in demand.

In this connection, remember that certain classes of plays are "hatched up" in the studio—written by staff writers. If one of the studio writers learns that certain peculiar types of plays are wanted by his company, he is, of course, wise to write them. But there are enough exceedingly popular subjects everywhere to supply you with so much material that you will not have to resort to writing about subjects the demand for which is limited.

Writing: Things You Should Not Write About

Avoid Impossible, Impracticable and Too Expensive Subjects. The preceding chapter has indicated the importance of knowing what to write about. It is also vital for the beginner. to know what he should not write about, for there are many subjects which, in themselves, make the sale of a photoplay practically impossible.

The beginner often writes about a subject that is impossible or impracticable to produce. He does this because his knowledge of photoplay requirements is often limited; or he out does himself in an attempt to produce something extraordinary; or, having seen so many impracticable pictures on the screen, he is led to believe that the average motion picture company is anxious to produce the spectacular.

As to what is possible in the way of stage equipment to carry out a plot, the writer must be guided by his own judgment. There is no rule except common sense. Producers can provide almost anything, such as, automobiles, mansions, and so forth; but they can't easily wreck passenger trains and destroy battleships.

Always remember that each scene must be posed before the camera. All settings must be built by stage hands. There-fore, army battles, shipwrecks, train wrecks, and the like, are not only impracticable, but highly expensive. If you let your characters indulge in these gentle pastimes, your chances of making sales are few.

"Big scenes" are not only expensive and impracticable; they often are not worth the trouble. People care less and less about the spectacular. There is far more effect, power, and artistry in a simple scene, well planned, skillfully directed, ably acted. Very often scenes costing only a few dollars reach the heart of an audience when the more spectacular fails.

Hundreds of otherwise good manuscripts have been returned with the simple remark, "Too expensive to produce." Try, therefore, to be economical. But do not imagine that producers are penurious. They are quite the contrary, yet the photoplaywright should not make it obligatory for them to spend any great amount of money. Let them decide whether they will or not. If they think your work warrants an expensive scene, they will provide it; but you should not handicap the sale of your manuscript by insisting on the scene.

Leave out of your plot all action requiring unusual scenic effects or elaborate stage settings. Of course, a powerful theme should be well handled with respect to setting; but it is best to treat your theme in a general way regarding the exact location and leave the entire matter in the hands of the producer. If the action of your plot takes you to an unusual place, the filming of which will cost considerable, ask yourself if the same action could not be well worked out in a less ex-pensive location. You might think a great number of people are required to produce a certain scene. No doubt it would be very effective to have your hero quarrel with the heroine in some elaborate scene, a ballroom, for example. But this would require a great number of "extras," when the same scene would be just as effective, even more effective because of centralization of interest, if it occurred in a quiet room of the girl's home.

Do Not Write About Children and Animals.—A great many photoplays have been produced in which a trick animal has been featured. Mack Sennett has often used in his comedies a very intelligent dog. Horses with special training have also been utilized. These pictures are generally so appealing that many beginners immediately decide they must write one. Here they make a big mistake, for the average company is not equipped with trained animals and is, therefore, unable to produce such manuscripts.

If, however, you have an excellent plot absolutely requiring the use of a trained animal, the best thing for you to do is to take the matter up with some company before you attempt to write the script. Do not waste time on the play unless you first find out that there is a possibility of selling it.

For the same reason, you should not attempt to write photo-plays requiring the use of children; that is, children skilled in dramatic art. Many different children have been featured in different productions. Most of them have made a decided hit. But it is not advisable for the new writer to attempt this type of production unless he previously makes arrangements with some company to consider his work. In writing your first plays, you will do well to confine yourself to subjects that can be produced in most any studio. This will greatly increase your chance of success.

Why Costume Plays Seldom Sell.—The first thing some beginners want to write are plays requiring the use of elaborate costumes of romantic days gone by. Such productions are called "costume plays." A great many of them have been produced, and always will be produced; but, as a rule, they are written in the studio by staff writers, or are written by free-lance writers at the request of some particular producer. You can readily see-, therefore, what small chance a beginner would have of selling a costume play. There is scarcely one chance in a hundred that he would find a producer who was ready and willing to go to the tremendous expense of producing his script.

It is just as easy, in fact much easier, to write plays of the present day, in which characters appear in their regular clothes. To write such manuscripts requires no research work, while to write costume plays you must diligently study the custom and costumes of the period you wish to portray.

Things the Censors Don't Like.—The National Board of Censorship is a committee made up of men and women of various occupations, who review and pass on all photoplays produced, deciding whether or not the film in question should be allowed to go before the public. In addition to the National Board of Censorship, there are state boards which also pass on all films and decide whether they shall be exhibited in their own particular state. We also further find in various cities muncipal boards which function in the same way as the state and national bodies, with respect, however, only to their own city.

In many localities, the Board of Censorship goes to extremes and often bars subjects already passed by the National Board. In other cases, they very foolishly cut out parts of films, often spoiling the picture:

Because of the fact that the censors are often extreme in their judgment, writers must be exceedingly careful about what they let their characters do. If, however, you write as your conscience dictates, tempering it with a sense of decency, the probabilities are that your plays will not meet with any serious objection. But be careful not to introduce scenes inviting objection, simply because you have seen them make a decided hit in other productions.

The Board of Censorship does not give an actual list of things they object to. This is probably because a certain action might be objectionable in one play but not in another. In other words, whether or not a scene is objectionable depends largely on the author's manner of handling the subject. The following list, however, is very apt to cover all the general subjects coming under the ban of the National- Board of Censorship.

1. The Unwritten Law.—The censors do not consider the unwritten law a justification for murder.

2. Crime.—A picture with crime in it will not pass (1) when the crime is plainly the main purpose of the picture; when the entire story depends on the crime; or (2) when a crime is repulsive; or (3) when anything is barbarously killed; or (4) when a crime is executed in some unique manner. The reasons for the rejection of the above subjects are so apparent that they need not be amplified.

3. Suicide.—One of the most vital aims of the Board is to eliminate all suggestion of self-destruction; they will not pass a picture in which suicide is a feature.

4. Burglary.—A scene of burglary may be introduced successfully, provided there is no actual theft portrayed, no demonstration of the act. The burglar may be shown entering a house, but he must not be shown in the act of "breaking in." He may be shown with his back to the audience rifling a safe, but he should not be seen opening the safe by any of the methods known only to burglars.

5. Vulgarity and Suggestion: Your play should not contain any vulgar or suggestive action. Eliminate all question able flirtations and everything verging on the degenerate.

6. Mischief: Avoid actions that tend to suggest mischief to youthful people. For instance, no one in your script should play a joke on an invalid or a cripple. Neither should property or valuables be destroyed simply to perpetrate a joke on someone.

7. Lynching.—The only time lynching is permissible in a picture is when the lynching occurred in the days when it was commonly practiced—in the days of the early West.

8. Deadly Weapons.—Guns, knives, and deadly weapons are not objectionable when they portray historical incidents. Otherwise they are taboo.

g. Immorality.—Immorality is not tolerated unless skill-fully handled. Remember audiences are often composed quite largely of children.

10. Kidnapping.—Objectionable in some localities.

The above is not an absolutely complete list of objectionable subjects, owing to the fact that new things seem to be arising all the time. The important thing for the new writer to bear in mind is that many of the things listed above are not absolutely barred from pictures. A great many films are produced using crime scenes, for instance; but the author was able to handle them in a proper manner, and probably the crimes were essential to the story and not the purpose of it. In other words, crime and even immorality may be introduced in a play if it is properly handled. In many cases it becomes necessary in order to teach a lesson.

Other Objectionable Subjects.—There are many things produced on the legitimate stage which would not be tolerated in the photoplay. This is because a large proportion of the people attending motion picture theaters are children or impressionable adults. Therefore, the photoplay has a standard of its own.

Do not confuse sincerity with suggestion. Pictures have been made in which women have quite properly appeared in the nude, or practically so; but such action was necessary to pro-duce the picture and was masterfully handled, so cleverly, in fact, that no one could take offense. On the other hand, a woman might unnecessarily reveal more of her ankle than is customary and make the scene objectionable—suggestive. As George Ade said about courting a haughty lady, "It has to be done in a certain way."

One type of unpleasant drama is that showing scenes of drinking and debauchery, wherein some character becomes badly intoxicated, slinks home to his sickly wife, beats her, then, after performing all manner of vile acts, suddenly braces up and reforms!

The only time that murder should be shown, and that very delicately, is either in a detective drama or else in good tragedy, where the removal of some character is essential to the plot. All of Shakespeare's tragedies deal with crime, but they do not exploit it, and never revel in the harrowing details to produce a thrill.

The producers themselves are often responsible for much of the objectionable appearing on the screen. In many cases, and especially in comedies, they introduce questionable elements to gratify a known demand on the part of certain elements of the public. If you are not going to limit the possibilities of selling your work, however, you had better eliminate all objectionable features in your plot.

As a rule, no matter what you write about, the sale of your play depends largely on the way in which you handle your subject. If you are not careful, many otherwise harmless incidents may become undesirable. For instance, an elopement is not generally considered objectionable in a photoplay; in fact, the audience is quite apt to sympathize with the lovers when the girl's father refuses to allow them to marry. But, if the boy is seen in certain scenes wasting his time or doing any one of perhaps a hundred similar things, the audience is quite likely to think the father is a good judge of character and give him all of their sympathy. Should an elopement then occur, it would prove objectionable.

Censors realize, as well as anyone, that morality is to be desired ; and, to this end, crime, or suggestion of crime, will be permitted if it teaches a lesson. But crime for crime's sake is condemned.

Many young authors somehow have the idea that in order to make their plays worth while, there must be a violent or tragic death scene. But the truth is that there are thousands of intensely interesting pictures in which there is not the slightest suggestion of death. In fact, a play without this depressing element is quite apt to be far superior to one containing it. It is a positive fact that editors return hundreds of otherwise good manuscripts in which there are suicides, murders, and deaths, simply because they are too depressing to be produced.

Shun Depressing Subjects.—This leads to a more detailed consideration of depressing subjects.

People go to the movies to be entertained, to forget their troubles, to live for a few brief hours the life of their dreams, to be the hero or the heroine they unconsciously want to be in their own minds. So it becomes highly desirable to eliminate all depressing elements from your plays.

As previously stated, death should be avoided as much as possible; yet it is not entirely out of place if it is absolutely necessary to the logical culmination of your plot. Too many stories, however, contain unnecessary death scenes. For this reason the author is cautioned. Do not imagine, however, that people go to see photoplays merely to laugh, or to be amused. "They come to weep as well as laugh." But the thing to remember is that very often a scene showing the saving of a life is far more welcome than one depicting death. Even though a character is detestable, it is not desirable to show his death, if otherwise the plot can proceed. We often feel that some characters are so obnoxious that it would be a good thing if they should die, but there is another side to the question—the good-for-evil side. Wouldn't it be better to show a change of heart on the part of an evil character as a solution, than to exterminate him !

A distinction should be made between gloomy pictures and those which simply introduce elements of sadness. Remember what the poet said about "a tear in the eye and a smile on the lips."

Do Not Write Offensive Plays.—Do not offend anyone's religious or political faiths. People do not object to being "talked to" in a mild or perhaps entertaining way, but they don't want to have their feelings hurt. A gambler will watch a picture portray the evil result of his folly and not object to it; in fact, he may be benefited by it. He may be glad he saw it, and resolve to change his ways. But a man does not enjoy being ridiculed or abused because of his religious or political faiths.

There have been a number of pictures released which have caused a world of strife among various religious denominations and even in the moving picture industry itself. Producers, therefore, are on their guard, and will not use any kind of play indulging in sectarian squabbles. If the beginner wishes to retain the good will of the producer, he had better avoid anything likely to offend religious beliefs. Leave religion to the churches; it has no place in the "movies."

Moving picture theaters are patronized by all classes of people. Therefore, exhibitors must be careful what they run. They must not "step on anyone's feet."

You should be careful not to offend anyone's political faiths, but you do not have to avoid writing about politics. A play could be acceptable if it dealt with socialism, provided it were not written for socialism's sake. In other words, if you write about a political theme, politics should not predominate. Heart interest should be the all-engrossing element. This is equivalent to saying that the new writer will do well not to write about politics.

Do not "knock" anybody or anything in your plays, no matter how strong the desire.

Do not offend good taste. If your play is likely to prove distasteful to a single person, don't write it. Plays antagonistic to the better elements in people never should be written.

Do not hold any race up to ridicule. It is permissible to make light humor of certain racial characteristics; but, if you do this, you must be careful to make the audience laugh with the characters and not at them.

Do not write plays dealing with certain sections of the country, or the peculiarities of locality. Be broad in choosing your themes. Your work should deal with the problems of humanity in general, without reproach for any race, color, or religion.

Beware of Hackneyed Themes.-Always avoid the obvious. "There are a number of subjects about which all new writers somehow want to write. If you could review the hundreds of manuscripts sent to any editorial office, you would be surprised at the great number who write about the same old hackneyed plots. At first one wonders why this is. But the reason is simple. The beginner is quite apt to follow the line of least resistance, and naturally write about a worn-out subject. It is easier than to contrive a new one.

In casting about for a theme or plot, many writers lazily grasp the first thing they come to, without trying to locate something with originality. They develop their plot in the same slothful manner. The result is a photoplay almost exactly like hundreds of others received by every studio every day. It is hopelessly unsalable.

Nineteen Hackneyed Themes to Be Avoided.—There is a general list of subjects not wanted by any editor unless they are treated in an exceptionally new way; even then is it doubtful whether they would sell. Of course, there is no arbitrary list; but it is safe to say that any manuscript based on the following subjects will not find a ready sale unless the author is clever enough to write the plot in a strikingly original manner. Obviously, therefore, the best thing for the beginner to do is to shun a plot based on any of the following subjects:

(1) The stolen child, kidnapped by gypsies usually, and finally restored to its parents by means of a locket, birth-mark, or some equally foolish means.

(2) The child who prevents the parents from separating, or reunites them after separation. These plays are generally called, "A Little Child Shall Lead Them."

(3) Two men in love with one girl. She gives them a common task to perform; one tries to win by crooked methods and is discovered. She marries the other. (Note—Two men in love with the same girl creates a hackneyed situation, but does not necessarily mean a hackneyed photoplay. Many excellent productions have been built around this theme. And it is safe to say that hundreds, even thousands, of other excellent manuscripts will be written around the same triangle. But they will be treated in an entirely original manner by their authors, and the only thing hackneyed about them will be the eternal triangle situation.

(4) Plays in which a rich child, usually a cripple, is contrasted with a poor child, usually strong and healthy.

(5) The husband jealous of one of his wife's relatives, generally a brother who has been in South America since early youth.

(6) The discharged workman who sets out to injure his former employer, but who, instead, performs some heroic task, thus regaining his old job.

(7) The couple who fall in love, only to find that they are brother and sister, parted early in life.

(8) The unapproved marriage finally made acceptable by a child.

(9) A mischievous little boy.

(10) All stories requiring trick photography.

(11) All stories based on peculiar "influences," or other uncommon sources.

(12) The burglar who enters a house and is prevented from stealing by a child, sometimes even his own, adopted by the family. This type of play usually ends with a rapid-fire reformation, very unconvincing, to say the least.

(13) The escaped convict, who steals another man's clothes and gets the other party "in bad."

(14) The hero who assumes another's crime because he loves the heroine.

(15) Do not under any circumstances build a play around a pair of, baby shoes.

(16) Stories built on well-known criminal cases.

(17) The poor lonesome character, usually friendless, money-less, homeless-and, I almost said, brainless—at Christmas or Thanksgiving.

(18) The hard-working young man who finally gains an interest in "the business" and wins the "hand" of the employer's daughter. The opposition in such a play generally is the foreman or a scheming partner.

(19) The hero having a duty to perform, generally an arrest to make, who falls in love with the evil one's daughter, and—this is the "crool" thing—has to choose between love and duty. Why, there's the title! "Love and Duty." These plays are turned out by the million.

This isn't the end of the list by any means. One could go on listing hackneyed subjects almost indefinitely. Most beginners seem to take a keen delight in writing about them.

Nothing could make the rejection of their work more certain. But it is a- waste of time to give more examples, for the list above is sufficient to give the earnest writer a clear idea of the type of manuscript not wanted, under ordinary treatment.

Some beginners will wonder how they are to avoid hackneyed subjects. The first thing to do is to use common sense. The next best antidote is a never-ending study of the screen. The rejection slips you receive are often good indicators, too. An extensive reading of books and periodicals will also greatly help you.

A number of stories and plays have been produced in which some of the above themes listed as hackneyed have been used in some form or other. Take the mischievous boy for example. Who wouldn't like to see Booth Tarkington's "Penrod" come to life on the screen! Naturally the beginner wonders why such a play would be acceptable. The reason is simple. A clever writer is often able to take an impossible theme and do wonderful things with it. He disguises it, so to speak. But this is work for experienced pens.

Things in General to Avoid.—Beginners frequently make the mistake of attempting extremely long and exhaustive subjects before they have succeeded with short plays. Many new writers want to begin their career with an "Intolerance" or a serial of twenty episodes and forty reels, generally on the order of one of the "perils" or "masked figure" pictures so well known to playgoers.

Spectacles like "Intolerance" are subjects which have been turned over in the author's mind for years. Usually the author writes and directs his own manuscript. He spends perhaps from two to four years producing it. It is hardly necessary to say, then, that this is not a subject for the beginner. The new writer will do well to confine his writing to five- or six-reel dramas and one- and two-reel comedies.

There is practically no demand for Bible stories. Occasionally, a story is produced from a Biblical subject; but the work is usually done by a company specially organized for the production. If you attempt to write Bible plays, you are doomed to failure before you start.

Allegorical stories and labor problem plays are not wanted. Sex stories are rapidly going into the discard, even though now and then one is produced in a sensational way. Drug and liquor plays are rapidly disappearing. In truth, the ever-increasing aim of producers and exhibitors is to get away from all unclean, unwholesome, and unhappy subjects. There are so many bright things in the world that the unclean ought to be strictly avoided. People, too, have so many vexations in their own lives that they do not care to witness trouble in their entertainment. In this connection, remember again the happy ending. Many lives end in lost hope, broken faith, and shattered love; but producers are striving more and more to get away from these things, so the new writer will do well to gratify their desires and give them the happy ending.

Many an otherwise salable photoplay has been rejected because its plot contained a glaring inconsistency unknown to the author. This does not mean that little inconsistencies in a photoplay necessarily cause rejection. It is only when the inconsistency is an actual element or important situation in the plot that it is rejected.

Writing: Writing Comedy

The Four Types of Humorous Plays.—In the photoplay world, there are few fine distinctions between the different types of manuscripts. Plays are loosely classified as "dramas" or "comedies," depending on whether they are inclined to be serious or merely funny.

There are four distinct types of comedy subjects: (1) Extravaganza, (2) burlesque, (3) farce, (4) comedy.

1. Extravaganza usually treats of unnatural and impossible situations. The superhuman activities of a character, or set of characters, usually supply the plot. There is not much need to detail this type, for the writing of it should not be attempted by the beginner.

2. Burlesque generally treats of a serious, and, perhaps, well-known subject, in an absurd, incongruous manner.

3. Farce goes to extremes, dealing with the ridiculous, but not with physical impossibilities. Though farce need not necessarily be probable, still it should be put on a plausible basis and worked out as though probable.

4. Comedy is generally a more refined type of humor than farce. Strictly speaking, it deals with humorous situations of every-day life—situations which may happen to the average individual. There is nothing extravagant, unnatural, or super-human about comedy. It must be absolutely probable. Herein lies its value; its humor is real. Of course, humor may be carried to the extreme in comedies; but it should not be made incredulous.

Why Writing Comedy Is a Difficult Art.—Producers often announce that they are overstocked with certain types of dramatic subjects, such as western stories, or war stories, but it is a rare thing indeed to hear one say that he is overstocked-With comedies. This is because comedy is a difficult art. The easiest thing for a writer to do is to appeal to the emotions. The next most difficult subjects are those appealing to the intellect. But by far the most difficult thing to do is to make an audience laugh.

Comedy writing is becoming more difficult each year. Producers no longer will even consider a manuscript consisting of a string of disconnected incidents. Comedy now a-days must contain a well laid out plot as a basis for the humor, and must be constructed exactly the same as a dramatic play. The incidents going to make up the plot cannot be assembled from mid-air; there must be a reason for them. It is often laughable to give a character a ducking in a fountain, but there must be a reason for doing it.

Furthermore, the old, old trick of having characters "throw things"—generally soft pies or other mushy articles—at each other is rather obsolete, to say the least. This outrage is still perpetrated in some comedies, but is rapidly passing into the discard. It is becoming constantly more difficult for the new writer to sell work in which such action is incorporated. All this goes to show that comedy writing is truly a difficult art and is becoming more exact as time passes.

How to Write Comedy.—Comedy must be treated in a "full manner." There must be about twice as many scenes in a comedy as in a dramatic photoplay. This is due to the fact that the scenes are short, as a rule, and the action progresses more rapidly. This is one reason why comedy is difficult to write; not because it takes more time; not because the labor utilized in the mechanical preparation is extensive; but because a writer must put considerable brain-work to the task of writing a plot containing twice the ordinary amount of action.

In comedies, every scene must create a laugh. It is not possible to use a set of scenes having no particular comic value.

This might be done in a dramatic subject but would not be tolerated in comedy. Unfortunately, however, humor does not enter into many of the scenes in present-day comedies. Many producers have been guilty of stretching a few good ideas over several reels, but this only goes to show how really scarce good comedy is and how editors are pressed for good subjects.

In the early days of photoplay writing, comedy subjects consisted of split-reels; that is, it took two or more short comedy plays to make one reel of film. These brief, would-be comedies have gone into the discard; it is practically impossible these days to find a comedy less than one reel in length—requiring about twelve or fifteen minutes for exhibition on the screen—consuming about a thousand feet of film. So it is useless for the new writer to attempt comedy of less than one reel. Two is the usual length; but very few comedy subjects take up more than this number.

The first thing for the writer to decide, then, is whether his play should be one or two reels. If there is any doubt in his mind he should make it one reel. Don't attempt to "pad" a comedy. If you do, it will surely drag. Better eliminate a few situations, and confine your plot to one reel, than to try to pad it into two.

Because comedies are short it does not follow that they sell for comparatively smaller sums. Comedies are so scarce that, even though short, they bring just as much as five- and six-reel dramatic plays. It is quality more than quantity that counts.

Requirements of Comedy.—Comedies of society life and comedies of every-day life are always in demand. Unusual stress is placed upon domestic scenes. The comedy writer should always remember that comedies of action are far more valuable than comedies of ideas. It is not sufficient to lead the characters up to a funny climax; all of the action leading to the climax must be laughable. Of course, there should be a humorous idea back of your comedy; the main theme must be facetious in itself; but all the time you are leading up to the climax, you must introduce humorous situations.

It is a difficult matter to write a comedy of ideas. This may easily be done on the theatrical stage; here the characters are permitted the constant use of smile-provoking dialogue. But in the photoplay, the laughs must arise from funny action alone, with the use of a very few words. Take the Chaplin comedies, for instance; there are few or no sub-titles in them; their success depends almost entirely on the ludicrous ad-ventures of Mr. Chaplin and his associates.

Each scene in a comedy should have its own individual comedy action; and that action should relate specifically to the plot—and should help in advancing the plot to its logical climax. So if any scenes in your comedy are not funny, inject humor into them; but do not try to force the comedy, and, in so doing, introduce situations having no bearing on your plot.

General Advice.—Practically every successful comedy has a worth while plot at the bottom.. This plot may be some-what hidden by the comedy incidents going to make up the main situation; but it is there just the same, and all of the funny incidents introduced into the script have some direct bearing on that plot. If they didn't they would cease, in a large measure, to be funny.

If you want to write a farce do not switch off to comedy-drama in part of your manuscript. Many amateur manuscripts contain a little of all the different types of comedies Emotional dramas generally contain, comedy elements as re-lief for the serious, but it is poor comedy indeed that contains tragedy.

Many comedy writers tend to introduce questionable elements in their plays. They forget that, if a joke offends good taste, it ceases to be funny. Also, if comedy is to be appreciated, it must be jovial. The new writer is likely to introduce national types in comedy; extravagant Frenchmen or red-whiskered Irishmen; but he quickly finds this type of play has long gone out of fashion. The successful type of comedy to-day does not treat of any particular class of people. The main comedians are generally ordinary people of no particular type. In other words, racial and sectional characteristics are not wanted.

Clean comedy is the thing in demand. In some comedies are introduced elements which would not be tolerated by the Censors in regular drama. But incidents of this kind are be-coming rarer all the time, and the clean comedy of situation is rapidly coming into its own.

A few years ago, almost any sort of coarse, suggestive, even vulgar, situations could get a laugh. The character of play-goers is changing, however. This type of picture, therefore, is rapidly passing. It has been the policy of some producers to build quite elaborate comedies around married life. Many of these have been questionable. Infidelity should be left out of all comedies. It may be a fit subject for the legitimate stage, but not for the movies, which are patronized by young and old. Always remember not to introduce anything into your comedies likely to prove objectionable to, or be improper for, any member of the audience to view.

In writing the synopsis of your comedy, do not attempt to be funny in telling it. A comedy synopsis should be related in a crisp, clear, business-like manner without resorting to jokes or puns in the telling. The editor wants to know whether the action of your plot is funny.

Comedy action should progress smoothly like a well-oiled machine. Each scene should glide easily to the next, without a hitch or a halt, constantly approaching the major climax, exactly as in drama.

Writing: The Writer, His Methods

Do Not Despise a Humble Beginning.—While the writer should always aim to do the best work of which he is capable, this does not mean that he should despise the day of small beginnings. Better work tomorrow can only be accomplished upon the foundation of good work, carefully finished, today.

It is not unusual to meet a beginner who -says, "I do not care to consider the preparation of short articles or unimportant stories. My idea is to write something that will be worthy of the highest class literary periodicals of the day." This is a worthy aim, but an unwise mental attitude likely to lead to disappointments and possibly to utter discouragement. It is as if the musical student without knowledge of notes or time should remark, "I do not wish to spend any time on unimportant details. I prefer to be a Paderewski at once."

Why a Writer Should Exercise Daily. The writer who would succeed must be physically fit. We are told of men and women who have succeeded in spite of great physical handicaps—Stevenson, Byron, Poe, and others. These individuals were exceptional, and what they might have accomplished, had the best of health been theirs, will never be known. The writer must eat sanely and temperately if the system is to function properly and the brain to be clear and alert. Indulgence in a single bad habit is likely to undermine success, for you cannot serve in the most efficient way unless you are not only dear-brained and clear-eyed, but clean-souled as well. The public is becoming more and more discriminating, and it demands that every message, no matter where given or how, shall ring true.

As the writer's work is sedentary, a regular amount of physical exercise is necessary. An hour spent in the open air may or may not be particularly beneficial, depending upon the mental attitude and bodily poise of the individual. A slouching gait, rounded shoulders, or purposeless meandering, will not amount to much mentally or physically. If, however, the writer will set aside a certain regular period every day for brisk, out-of-door exercises; will stand with the body in a perpendicular line from the ball of the foot to the hip and the point of the shoulder, being careful not to let the spine sag as he walks, breathing deeply as he goes, and rejoicing he is alive, he will gain much.

Such exercise should not be wholly purposeless, for the mind must be pleasantly occupied. The writer should go forth to gain a fact, to execute an errand, to observe exactly how nature looks and acts under given circumstances, or for some definite purpose, if only to have a good time. He will then return to his desk refreshed and invigorated.

Important Rules to Remember.—The work of the writer is of a nerve-trying nature as it calls for close concentration. The nerve cells of the body are best filled up and renewed by drinking plenty of water daily, by having an abundance of fresh air, and by an abstemious but nourishing diet.

To do a good day's work should be the aim of every writer. Some set themselves a certain daily task and do not stop until one, two, or three thousand words, as the case may be, have been completed ; others work as the inspiration seizes them ; still others sit down quietly for half an hour every morning, and carefully plan out the work of the next day, deciding what ought to be done and what must have first attention. The latter method usually brings excellent results; it pre-vents random work and the neglect of definite, timely effort.

Regular hours of sleep are exceedingly necessary for the writer, and, while some may do better work at night or very early in the morning, yet these things are largely a matter of habit, and working hours should be arranged and coordinated with sleeping hours to keep the physical fitness of the worker always at par.

The Four-Square Development.—It is a mistake for the writer to live constantly within confining walls, or to grind at his desk continually without seeking inspiration. To succeed he needs personal, four-square development.

(1) The best quality of work cannot be done without physical well-being.

(2) Real progress and mental development require that he may profit by contact with the great minds of all time through the printed page.

(3) To write about life accurately, one must know life, and so the social side must not be neglected.

(4) The writer, above all others, should be able to perceive and appreciate the unselfish, the altruistic, and the vision of human possibility and divine love. To neglect one's spiritual development may condemn to utter superficiality.

Do Not Worry About Your Education. There are those who sigh, "No one knows how I long to write, but I fear I lack sufficient education."

Education is relative. By some it is gained in schools and universities, by others in Life's University of Experience. There are those who have had the advantage of rare academic opportunities, yet who lack the faculty of telling what they know to others. There are men and women writers of note who know no language but their mother tongue and a part of whose education has been gained through reading and study when the regular day's work was done.

Education is an advantage, of course, unless it makes one a slavish imitator of others—then it ceases to be education and becomes bookishness.

If you have a message for others, give it honestly, clearly, and with telling directness, being careful to verify your facts and to advance no weakening theory. Ideas are more important than the mere dress in which they are clothed. There are many more who can groom and polish than there are who can create. Education is not to be minimized, but a reasonable amount can be acquired by those who are sufficiently in earnest. Euducation must be of the perceptions and of the heart, however, as well as of the head.

Where to Do Your Writing.—Every one who essays to write should have some place devoted to the work; for, while it is possible to take notes anywhere, we become more or less creatures of habit and do our best work in the spot which is so familiar that we become unconscious of our surroundings and readily absorbed in the work in hand. Most people can do better work in a place where interruptions are few; others have developed their power of concentration to a point where they can write in a city newspaper office with the click of type-writers and the clang of heavy presses in their ears. But there is no gainsaying the fact that writing and thinking against continuous noise is a much greater nervous strain than writing amid quiet surroundings.

An Elaborate Equipment Not Necessary. Every writer should have a roomy desk, the books and magazines devoted to the craft, some sort of a simple filing system, a type-writer, good light for night and day, and the means of good ventilation and temperature regulation suitable to the time of year. As far as possible, the writer's surroundings should be such as to give him no concern or thought. Discomfort distracts the mind; reasonable comfort is an economy.

A good typewriter of standard make, fresh, clear ribbons, good paper, and carefully prepared work are necessary that manuscripts may compete successfully in attractive appearance with others in the editorial office. A carelessly prepared manuscript, or one showing many corrections, is a poor business proposition. The salesman who would approach his customers with soiled linen and shoes run down at the heel, with unshaven face and untrimmed hair, might save in personal expense, but would limit his income decidedly. "There is an economy that tendeth to poverty." It is better business to have a manuscript typewritten by some one capable of doing it well, than to send it forth indifferently prepared.

While, it is desirable for every writer to have a typewriter, it is not absolutely necessary. Futhermore, you need not buy a machine. There are a number of firms all over the world who make a business of renting typewriters for only three or four dollars monthly. If you do not want to rent a machine, you can get your manuscripts typewritten for a very small sum by Most any stenographer.

No one should be discouraged, however, who can not have everything at once. We must learn to do the best we can with what we have, always remembering that the main thing is to have original ideas to offer. To know what we want to do, to fix our eyes determinedly on the goal, and to work persistently toward that end, is sooner or later to accomplish our purpose. We can have what we want if we want it earnestly and persistently enough.

How to Prepare a Manuscript for Sale.—In preparing manuscripts only one side of the paper should be used. The regular typewriter sheet, eight and one-half by eleven inches, is the most favored size. Use plain white unruled paper. The name and address should be written in the upper left-hand corner of the first page, the number of words—if a story or article—noted in the upper right-hand corner, and the remark "Usual Rates" directly underneath this. About one-third way down, write the title, spacing it accurately in the middle of the page and using all capitals. If a nom de plume is used, it is written under the title and separated from it by the word "By." Editors do not favor nom de plumes as they complicate the task of office bookkeeping. An author endeavoring to build up a reputation should send out work he will be willing to own, so that his prestige may be steadily cumulative. A nom de plume is the mark of the amateur.

Further pages of the manuscript should be numbered in the center of the page at the top. To avoid loss of pages, or confusion in case they are separated, it is a good idea to write the title at the top of each succeeding page following the first. Thus, the title "Counter Currents" will appear in the center of the first page and at the top of the other pages.

How to Submit a Manuscript for Sale.—Manuscripts are preferably folded twice to fit an envelope of legal size. They are never rolled and are clumsy if folded once. Two sizes of envelopes should be kept. The smaller size should take in the twice-folded, typewritten sheet easily and should bear the name and address of the sender, together with stamps enough to bring the manuscript back in case it is rejected. The outside envelope should be large enough to take in the return envelope and the manuscript and yet leave at least an inch to spare at the end. The envelope sizes known as No. to and No. 11 fill this description. The outer envelope is addressed as follows:

The manuscript should not be slipped into the return envelope, but the two placed side by side in the larger envelope. The outside envelope should bear in the upper left-hand corner the address of the sender and be fully stamped for FIRST CLASS delivery. It is not necessary to send a letter to the editor, unless some special information relative to the manuscript is necessary.

Other Useful Suggestions.—A small but accurate postal scale is a great convenience, for then the correct number of stamps may be enclosed for return. A manuscript record is essential.; This should be a three-by-five card on which is entered the facts of each offering. Devote one card to each manuscript, as shown on next page.

When a manuscript is accepted and paid for, remove the card to a second box kept for that purpose. The date when accepted, and when paid for, together with the price, may also be given. Separate cards in both boxes by alphabetical index.

Clippings are valuable, but they must be indexed or they are soon lost or forgotten. There are many systems for filing clippings—scrap books, subject envelopes, indexed clipping folders, and the like. Every writer will have to work his system out to suit his own particular needs. A system, how-ever, there should be, and it is of little benefit unless it is kept up regularly.

How a Single Idea May Be Utilized in Many Ways. —While the beginner is not advised to try all kinds of writing at once, it is well for him to realize that a single fact, like a jewel, may have several distinct facets or possibilities. A writer who found it necessary to prepare an article on olive growing and harvesting for a trade paper, came across information which could not be used to advantage there. This material was utilized by writing another informative article for young people on olive culture and the curing processes used for green and ripe olives; another was done for a household publication, on the medicinal uses of olive oil; and still another for a similar publication on olives and olive oil on the home table. Nor was this all, for facts still remained to be used at a convenient season, regarding the mechanical methods of extracting olive oil, the different commercial uses of the olive pits, distinguishing characteristics of the different grades of olives, Bible references to the olive in ancient times, etc., etc.

Study Markets.—Not only is it wise to study the policy of different magazines and studios, but it is well to have a general knowledge of the different classes of markets, so that we may know at once where an experience, an anecdote, a write-up, a story, or a photoplay will likely find a welcome. Many individuals pass quantities of good material daily simply because they do not realize there is a place for it. It is not to be expected that any one writer will become acquainted with all of the field, or even a small part of it at once, but the acquaintance may be steadily broadened until the leading publications in a definite field at least are known.

Do Not Impose Upon Editors.—Do not ask an editor for criticisms, or reasons for rejection. Editors are busy men. They are paid to perform the regular duties of their offices, and not to furnish a free course of instruction to those who choose to ask for it. If a kindly disposed executive happens to make a suggestion because he sees promise in your work take it kindly, and, above all things, heed it! Such a suggestion has been offered in a wholly disinterested manner and for your good. Do not besiege such an editor with letters for further help, or he will rue the day he was tempted to give any advice at all.

Writing: Why Manuscripts Are Rejected

Nine Reasons Why a Photoplay May Be Rejected. —The rejection of a manuscript is generally a mystery to its author; he can't understand why his work should be returned. On the contrary, he fails to perceive how any editor could exist without his brain child.

In the light of this, a few words from one who has read many hopeless manuscripts might not be entirely amiss.

One manuscript may be rejected because of its theme; another because the plot lacks a worth while idea; but, going through the files of my mind, I find that the nine most frequent defects in a beginner's work, in order of their frequency, are as follows: (1) A frank or veiled repetition of a play, or the major part of a play, already filmed; (2) lacking in dramatic possibilities ; (3) plot composed of a series of incidents, more or less vaguely related, but not leading to a major climax; (4) a wandering plot, beginning at childhood and ending in old age-lightly skipping from Portland to Paris for no particular reason ; (5) theme too morbid or depressing, or dealing extensively with unpleasant subjects, such as, white slavery, drug using, the underworld, and so on; (6) insincere —writer lacks a knowledge of human nature ; (7) lacking in suspense: (8) idea not interesting to the average person ; and (9) lack of motive; consequently, no reason why the play should have been written.

It is not necessary to go into details relative to the above defects. All of them have been treated extensively all through previous chapters of this work. It is sufficient to let the beginner definitely know that these form the "mysterious" reasons why so many thousands of photoplays are returned with the little white slip.

Eight Reasons Why Stories and Articles Sometimes Fail to Sell.—There are only two good reasons why a story or article should be published : either it appeals to the editor or he thinks his readers will like it. There are, however, a number of excellent reasons for making use of the stamps the author so considerately encloses. Stories are most frequently rejected because they are either (1) unfit, (2) unsuitable, (3) untimely, (4) not in harmony with editorial policy, (5) similar to a story already published or waiting publication, (6) too long, (7) too short, or (8) the story does not appeal to the editor.

Reason number one covers about ninety per cent. of rejections. Most submitted manuscripts are not fit for publication; in fact, the majority are not even worth the paper they are written on—and some arrive laboriously transcribed on discarded grocer's sacks, not to mention cast-off wall paper! In short, most stories and articles are not purchased because they are unfit for publication and could not be made salable even by a genius.

Unsuitableness explains the rejection of a great many manuscripts. Often they are interesting and well-written, but offered to the wrong magazine. This only goes to prove that the author usually is a poor salesman, incapable of selling his own work; or he is too wrapped up in writing to make a careful study of market conditions and requirements.

Many scripts come back because they are untimely. It is ludicrous how so many writers fail to realize that an event is good copy until long after the public has ceased thinking about it. Again, many beginners do not understand that magazine articles and stories are purchased fully four months in advance of publication. The amateur often forgets to write a Christmas story until the holidays are almost upon him. Then he rushes off a manuscript a couple of months before Christmas —and the editor rushes it back!

There is no need of discussing manuscripts not in harmony with editorial policies. Keep in touch with what editors want —that's all.

An author deserves sympathy when his story is rejected be-cause something similar is being prepared for publication, or has just appeared. But too many writers knowingly solicit defeat by sending in stories and articles like others they have read. To them no sympathy should be forthcoming.

Some stories are rejected because they are too short for division or too long for one installment. This is another case of the author's lack of foresight and judgment.

Many excellent manuscripts have been refused by magazines to whom they were, as far as experienced judgment could perceive, admirably suited, even when those same magazines were in the market for the particular type of story submitted. The same script, perhaps, was quickly accepted by the next magazine to which it was sent. An editor likes a story, or he doesn't like it. In the latter case, his dislike may be so strong that he doesn't ask himself whether his readers might be interested.

Writing: How Successful Writers Sell Their Manuscripts

The lour Ways to Sell a Manuscript.—There are four ways of selling stories and photoplays: (I) selling under con-tract; that is, preparing a certain story or play at the editor's order arid request; (2) offering your manuscript in person to the studio or magazine to whom you think it is best suited; (3) submitting your work through the mail; and (4) selling through the aid of a Literary Agent, or Bureau.

i. Selling Under Contract.—As far as the beginner is concerned, there is no need of discussing the first method. Only writers of well-established reputation ever are commissioned to write a certain style of play or story.

Some extremely popular authors have contracted to supply various magazines and studios with their entire output of work for a fixed period ; but, inasmuch as reputation is the primary prerequisite, the method need not be discussed.

2. Offering a Manuscript in Person.—No time need be wasted on this method. Editors are busy men; they do not have time to devote to interviews. The chances are that both you and your work will receive slight consideration if you attempt to sell it in person. If you go to an editor with your work in hand, the chances are that he will reject it with-out giving it a fair chance—unless you are well-known, but, if you send it to him through the mail, it will be given as much of a chance to prove its merits as any other script, no matter whom the author.

This brings us to the third method of selling.

3. Selling Through the Mail.—This is perhaps the most common way to dispose of manuscripts. Where one manuscript is sold by either of the above methods, perhaps a thou-sand are sold through the mail.

Don't be afraid to mail your script to an editor for consideration. Very rarely indeed is one lost; and if you keep a carbon copy of everything you send out, you won't even need to register your letter.

For some incomprehensible reason, many beginners are often possessed with the absurd notion that editors steal work. To the experienced editor this is laughable. I do not believe there is a magazine in the country that would steal any part of a submitted story. Editors are absolutely honest and trustworthy. Why shouldn't they be? Is there any reason in the world why a magazine editor should steal a manuscript, face future disgrace and unlimited expense through publicity and legal redress, when he can buy all the good productions he can use at regular rates, and be on the safe side?

True, I have heard it whispered in dark corners that some motion picture studios have in the past made use of ideas sent them without purchasing the scripts in which they appeared. In fact, it is said that a certain "reader" in Los Angeles—employed by a well-known film company to pass on all submitted manuscripts—took the plot of a submitted script and sold it as his own. But justice soon overtook him. To-day he is a wandering outcast, living in disgrace as far as the motion picture industry is concerned. So, you see, even photoplay editors do not tolerate theft.

The motion picture industry is young; naturally it was, in the beginning, infected with pirates; but the day has passed when a writer need be afraid of submitting anything to any reputable film manufacturer. They will treat you "square."

4. Selling Through the Literary Agent.—Many successful authors sell practically their entire output of stories and plays through agencies. Different agencies have different methods of procedure. As a rule, the author leaves the question of price to the agent. He may, however, set a maximum and a minimum price to be paid for his work. In addition, he generally makes a deposit to cover cost of postage to and from various editors. This, of course, he would be required to pay himself if he submitted his own work. In addition to the postage, he is required to pay the agent a commission usually from ten to twenty per cent.—of the price his work brings.

This method has many advantages over all others. The agent keeps in close touch with all magazines and studios; he has their requirements at his finger-tips, so to speak; he knows the fine points with respect to editorial tastes, needs, and peculiarities, so knows exactly to whom to submit—a thing few writers know, not having the time or the inclination to study market requirements; he knows which editors are over-stocked; he saves the author the embarrassment and trouble of selling—a thing he is rarely capable of doing well—thus giving the author more time for his writing; and, as a rule, the agent is able to secure a higher price than the author.

Some of the greatest writers in the world have indorsed literary agencies. Thousands of writers have succeeded through the help of the agent when they had hopelessly failed on their own behalf. There is no reason in the world why you should not offer your work for sale through an agency if you desire.

Writing: How To Merit Success

Do Not Expect Success in a Day.—Do not expect that everything you write will sell readily. You may not have offered it in the right direction, or at the right time, or possibly your manuscript is weak in some respect. There are many writers who rejoice that their first amateur efforts did not sell. But keep on trying! Let your motto be, "I will beat my own record," and remember you have no competitor to fear except Yesterday.

Success will not be attained by spasmodic efforts. The writer must be regular and persistent, yet even regularity and persistency may have a drawback, if the same mistakes are made over and over again. The fault you do not see may be a mannerism of speech, or an attitude of mind you have never recognized because it has so long been a part of your own life.

Watch Your Point of View.—A writer of unusual talent succeeded in gaining a small editorial hearing. Beyond this he did not seem to be able to go. The trouble was that, be-cause of an unhappy childhood, he viewed everything from a critical, doubting angle, almost invariably leaving an unpleasant taste in the reader's mouth. Even his rejection slips embittered him.

Another writer with a similar background argued: "I know what the lack of happiness means, so the highest purpose of my life shall be to bring sunshine into the lives of others. My words shall carry optimism, and hope, and cheer. They shall point outward and upward rather than down." And so her writing, though it dealt with homely things, had all the inspirational value of an angel's song. The thoughts she sent out to others were so generous and true that a Gulf Stream of Appreciation flowed back to her.

Do Not Hurry.—The manufacturer of fine extracts or good soaps prepares his merchandise and then puts it away to ripen. If he offers his product for sale at once he knows it is inferior to what it will be later on. The boy who leaves school at fourteen or fifteen to earn a weekly wage of eight, ten or even fifteen dollars, may feel rich, but what about the future? What will be his earning capacity in ten years?

The writer who is too impatient to give proper time and preparation to his work, who offers crude and immature products, is not using as much foresight and policy as one who plans, writes, and waits until the material cools off, then revises and writes again.

Quality Counts, Not Quantity.—Greater is the reward of the author who sells one article for twenty dollars than the reward of another who sells two for ten. The twenty-dollar check shows the first has acquired a much greater earning capacity than the second who received the ten-dollar check. The first can soon turn out two products of the twenty-dollar class as easily and in as short a time as the other can turn out three at ten dollars. And so their paths diverge, one be-coming constantly more capable, the other barely holding his own.

What Shall I Write?—Let my own heart answer. Manufactured interest on my part will not call forth spontaneous interest on the part of the reader. Enthusiasm begets enthusiasm

Why Shall I Write?—That I may serve my fellow people by adding to the richness of their lives in some way. Unless I have something to give, I may not hope to get. "He who serves best profits most." "The laborer is worthy of his hire," but conscientious labor must come before the expectation of reward.

When shall I Write?—Regularly, persistently, tirelessly.

A little success may be won in a short time by the few, but back of that success is sure to be a logical explanation. An amateur speaker was called upon to address an important public audience. Being in earnest, and having something to say, he carried his hearers with him and was applauded to the echo. The newspapers rang with the masterful address.

"How long were you preparing that speech?" the man was asked.

"Why," he returned thoughtfully, "I had about an hour's notice. I made these notes on the back of an envelope."

"Ah," said the other, "I must take issue with you. Your preparation really stretched over the years of your whole life."

Was it not so with Lincoln's address at Gettysburg? Some-times the moments consumed in recording experiences and conclusions are not as many as the years spent in preparation.

The writer should plan to devote regular time to his work even if it is the spare cracks of time and the little pieces one spends commuting to and from the business office. Remember the story of the doctor who succeeded in writing a large and important volume by persistently making use of every moment he waited for his patients to answer the door bell.

Where Shall I Write?—In the place I feel most at home, or where I must. If absolutely necessary, ordinary obstacles can be surmounted. The obstacles may test the mettle of the worker after all.

How Shall I Write ?—By realizing the importance of my task, by seeing before me the vast audience I address through the written word, or the pictured act, and, in fact, never daring to do other than my best. Let my head be clear, my hand steady, and my subject worthy and familiar, then I will feel the joy of life, the satisfaction of service, and shall not fail to receive the rewards I have merited.


About the Author

Elinor Glyn, née Sutherland (17 October 1864 – 23 September 1943), was a British novelist and scriptwriter who specialized in romantic fiction which was considered scandalous for its time. She popularized the concept of It. Although her works are relatively tame by modern standards, she had tremendous influence on early 20th century popular culture and perhaps on the careers of notable Hollywood stars such as Rudolph Valentino, Gloria Swanson and Clara Bow in particular.