The Prince of Storytellers
Tells His Own Story
by
E. Phillips Oppenheim
Published by Little, Brown & Co., Boston, 1927
A pamphlet issued to mark the publication of Oppenheim's 100th
novel—The Interloper. The cover image is based on the menu
printed for a dinner given in Oppenheim's honor at the Lotos Club in New York
in 1922
Story-writing is an instinct. I write stories because, if I
left them in my brain, where they are endlessly effervescing, I
would be subject to a sort of mental indigestion.
Story writing was my ambition from the first. My father was a
clever story teller—he never printed anything, though. When
we were small children he made each of us write a story on
Christmas evening—he wrote one himself—and they were
read out and we voted as to which we liked best. My father always
won. We were not allowed to vote each for himself! I shall never
forget my father's astonished face when one Christmas I won the
prize. I was only thirteen, and was quite considerably pleased
with myself.
I was eighteen years old when my first short story was
published, and only twenty when my first novel appeared. I have
therefore had more than forty years of story writing, and the
first thing which it occurs to me to say about it is that I do
not think there can be another profession in the world which
maintains its hold upon its disciples to such an extraordinary
extent. I do not know how else to account for the fact that
to-day I sit down to commence a new story with exactly the same
thrill as I did at twenty. The love of games, of sport, of sea
and mountains, the call of strange cities, wonderful pictures and
unusual people, however dear they may still remain to one, lose
something of their first and vital freshness with the passing of
the years. Not so the sight of that blank sheet of paper, waiting
for the thoughts and picture which crowd their way into the
brain. For every story has about it something new; every slowly
unwinding skein of fancy leads along some untrodden paths into
virgin fields. The lure of creation never loses its hold.
Personally I cannot account for the fact. Perhaps it springs from
the inextinguishable hope that one day there will be born the
most wonderful idea that has ever found its way into the brain of
a writer of fiction, an idea, dim glimmerings of which have
passed through the mind when one is half awake and half dreaming.
Every imaginative writer knows those will-o'-the-wisps. With the
morning their light has gone, but they do their good
work—they keep hope alive.
I do not know how a novel will develop when I begin it. I get
a vision of about two good characters—the man (he's the
main thing) and the woman (very secondary). These two elements,
together with my first chapter, constitute my preparation. Then I
live with my characters for a while—eat with them, walk
with them, play golf with them. Finally they begin to act
according to their own wills; then I let them go, and they work
out their own destiny. I simply pull the strings. Soon, the first
thing I know, I have another book ready for my publishers. It's
great fun, really.
If I were to attempt to work from a synopsis I should be done.
My story would be stilted and untrue. My characters would resent
it and at once kick over the traces. They would line out in sulky
and lethargic indifference. My readers would at once say "Pshaw!
He has written too much." And my publisher would hint at the high
price of paper and an old-age pension. So I leave the synopsis
alone. And as to plots—there are only about a score in the
world, and when you have used them all, from A to Z, you can turn
them around and use them from Z to A.
The measure of success which my stories have attained enables
me to write them in a manner I like best. When I'm not in the
country or in London I'm down on the Riviera, where I've a small
villa. I generally go there at the beginning of the year and come
back in the Spring—sometimes later. I have built a summer
house in the garden there, looking over the sea, where I do my
writing. There are excellent golf links near at hand.
Generally speaking, half my time is devoted to actual writing
and the other half is divided between exercise and sport, visits
to London, and travel. My work itself is accomplished with the
aid of a secretary, to whom I dictate my stories as they unfold
themselves in my mind, in Summer out-of-doors into a shorthand
notebook, and in Winter in my study onto a typewriter. Many a
time, earlier in life, when I used to write my stories with my
own hand, I have found that my ideas would come so much faster
than my fingers could work that I have prayed for some more
speedy method of transmission. My present method is not only an
immense relief to me, but it enables me to turn out far more work
than would be possible by any other means.
I find my best time for writing is in the
morning—namely, from about nine or nine-thirty till about
one o'clock. Unfortunately, however, my scheme for the day is
complicated by the fact that this is also the time during which I
prefer to play golf. I have, therefore, schooled myself into an
artificial preference for working between the hours of four and
seven in the evening.
Large numbers of people have noted that in certain of my
earlier novels I prophesied wars and world events that actually
did come to pass. In The Mysterious Mr. Sabin I pictured the
South African Boer War seven years before it occurred. In The
Great Secret and several others I based plots upon the German
menace and the great war that actually did occur. In The Great
Prince Shan I tried to picture the consequences that would
result if Great Britain abolished her international secret
service, her army and navy, and relied on some form of a League
of Nations solely for protection and peace. First of all, it must
be understood that what I write is done absolutely from the
standpoint of fiction. But I try to put more into the books than
romance. Plausibility is one of the things I aim at. Indeed, I
think that no novel can stand sturdily upon its own legs unless
it possesses sufficient plausibility to make the theme possible
in actual life.
I'm afraid that I cannot lay any claim to being an actual
prophet of world events. I don't go into trances and neither do I
gaze into a crystal and read the future. But I do try to keep
abreast of contemporary events and put two and two together. If
there is "writing on the wall" I try to see it. I was not the
only one who prophesied war with Germany. The signs were there
for all to read who took the trouble.
The war was, of course, a great hindrance as well as a great
stimulus to the writer of imaginative fiction. After having
written some fourteen novels foretelling exactly what happened
and preaching national service, the actually falling of the
thunderbolt was none the less stupefying. I was in Florence in
the early Summer 1914, and what I heard in political circles
there brought me home just in time to fetch my daughter from
boarding school in Brussels and reach London before the fateful
fourth of August. I remember in those first few months I was
inclined to take almost seriously the badinage of my friends, who
opined that now war with German had actually come to pass, there
would be nothing left for me to write about. That, however, was
only in the first few clouded weeks. Now that the cataclysm is
over, the stage is set for even more tragic happenings. So long
as the world lasts, its secret international history will
continue to engage the full activities of the diplomatist, and
suggest the most fascinating of all material to the writer of
fiction.
It will be noticed that in the majority of my novels I display
considerable familiarity with foreign capitals, but I am sorry to
say that, outside of Europe, I have never been a great traveler.
I have visited more or less frequently most European countries
and those in Northern Africa, and I have been to the United
States a dozen times. I have made it a hobby for many years to
frequent the cafés in all the cities which I visit on my
travels. I make the acquaintance of the maître
d'hôtel whenever possible and in my conversation with him,
and by studying the types represented among the patrons, a good
idea for a story inevitably suggest itself. Once, in a little
café in Paris, a café frequented by all classes, I
started one of my novels. As I was seated at one of the small
tables, a young French dancing girl told me the story that formed
the plot. Then and there I actually wrote the first chapter.
It is no gift of mine to impart reality to scenes and events
taking place in a country in which I have not actually lived.
Half a dozen thoroughfares and squares in London, a handful of
restaurants, the people whom one meets in a single morning, are
quite sufficient for the production of more and greater stories
than I shall ever write. The real centres of interest in the
world seem to me to be the places where human beings are gathered
more closely, because in such places the struggle for existence,
in whatever shape it may take, must inevitably develop the whole
capacity of man and strip him bare to the looker-on, even to
nakedness. So the cities are for me!
It is in these great cities, too, that men meet and mingle who
shape the destinies of nations. There is no more thrilling
subject than the activities of these men. The romance of secret
diplomacy has enthralled me for years; I have tried to reason out
the desires and ambitions of various nations through these
secretive individuals. I have reasoned to myself, "This nation is
aiming toward this", and, "That nation is aiming toward that";
then I have invented my puppets representing these conflicting
ambitions and set them in action. If I have frequently reached
conclusions that later developments in the real world have
established as true, it is because I have reasoned in a logical
manner and not through any supernatural insight. After all, the
roadways that great nations desire to travel are plain
enough.
To end these personal matters where I should have begun, I may
say that I was born in London in 1866, married in the United
States, and have one daughter. My chief interests, outside my
work, are the theatre, travel, sports and games of all sorts. I
enjoy my country life and my club life in London, and the thing I
enjoy better than anything else in the world (need it be stated
again?) is writing stories.
No, after all, I am not a prophet. I try to be, first of all,
a teller of tales, and the sort that will hold the interest of
every adventurously minded man and woman, and whether or not I
have succeeded or failed rests entirely with that public which
has greeted me so sympathetically for many years. To them I send
my greetings.
THE END
About the Author
Edward
Phillips Oppenheim was an English novelist, a prolific writer of
best-selling genre fiction, featuring glamorous characters,
international intrigue and fast action. Notably easy to read, they were
viewed as popular entertainments. He was featured on the cover of Time
magazine in 1927.
Wikipedia Born: October 22, 1866, Leicester, United Kingdom
Died: February 3, 1946, Saint Peter Port, Guernsey
Spouse: Elise Clara Hopkins (m. 1892)
Genre: Thriller romances
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