Excerpted from The Girl's Own Paper, July 16, 1881

The popular impression about writing a story, among those who have never set themselves to the task, is that it is a sort of thing that comes naturally; once begun, it will unwind and develop of itself, and arrive at a conclusion somehow or other. Another very general idea is that to tell some real incident that has attracted the notice of the writer cannot fail to make an interesting story. Our business in the present paper will be to show that both these notions are illusory; that to write a good story is as much an art as to construct verses or elaborate essays, and that all good writers follow certain definite rules and methods, which, though varying in individual cases, thus stamping certain writers with special characteristics, have, nevertheless, a certain similarity of foundation.

We find very diverse methods adopted by various well-known writers. Wilkie Collins, for instances, makes plot his chief care, and certainly no man living has displayed a more wonderful imaginative faculty. The plots of this eminent novelist enchain the reader's mind, and carry it on with absorbing and ever-accumulating interest until the grand climax is reached. But when it is all ended, what is the impression? That we have been living in a world of marvellous unrealities, watching the movements of a set of wonderful marionettes, moved by a master hand with elaborate forethought, as a man might play a game of chess. The characters, often drawn with the utmost skill, linger in our minds as the puppets who have worked out these extraordinarily-conceived plans, created for no other purpose than to act parts already arranged and bring about events already planned.

In life we know the action of individuals, in a certain limited sense, shapes the events which follow -- that, in fact, results are produced by causes; and, in order to be true to life, a writer will consider carefully how a certain character would act under certain circumstances with various influences brought to bear. The skill of the author would be shown by the manner in which he decided these important points, and thus created a consistent portrait of a character which might be perfectly original and at the same time lifelike [editor's note: this word was unreadable in the original and might possibly have been "melike"]. It will be seen that to gain a realistic impression the characters must in a sort of way develop the plot, rather than the plot make the characters. The truest art is to follow nature, and we know that human beings are not mere puppets worked by invisible wires, following a course already chalked, as upon a map. I need hardly add that Wilkie Collins's method, so far as we can judge it from his books, is not the one we would hold up as a model. There are few writers indeed who could have produced such results; and we must always remember that a man who stands alone, marked out by some strong individuality, is the last person who ought to be imitated. Genius, truly, often soars above rules; but it is only genius that can afford to do this.

A sensational writer of some celebrity in her sphere followed a curious plan in the working out of the stories which seemed literally to flow from her active pen. "I bring my hero or heroine into the most extraordinary and bewildering difficulties that I can possibly devise," she told a friend, "and then I set to work to contrive to get them out again. The more difficult I find this portion of my work, the better I know my story will be liked." This writer followed a method, certainly, but not a very artistic one. The result was that, though she had undoubted talent, she never rose beyond the ranks of the most sensational and ephemeral literature, which find plenty of readers among the thoughtless and ill-educated, filling them with false notions of life, and giving them more hazy notions than they already possessed of the borderland between right and wrong.

A very different method is that of the author whose chief object is to depict characters which shall live in the mind as life-like creations, even though the incidents of the story are almost forgotten. "The Wide, Wide World" is a specimen of this kind of story. Perhaps no better example of a writer who combined most forcibly both these styles could be found than Charles Dickens, whose characters are wonderful creations, the result of the keenest observation, and whose plots will bear comparison with those of most novelists, though character was, no doubt, his great study.

"But," my readers will say, "all this is only about criticising; not about writing stories." Quite true, but it is a great step gained to be able to intelligently detect from an author's work something of the rules by which he has been guided, and to note in what way such a plan has been the means of helping or retarding the success of his performance; for an immense deal of help is to be gained by carefully reading good models. A novice will invariably find that, if she has been reading some special book immediately before sitting down to write, her story will unconsciously be tinctured by the style of that author sufficiently for herself to detect the influence, though others may not do so. I do not mean to say that she will or ought to imitate, but that, as she is sure to be influenced by what she reads, she should be careful to study only good models.

Our novice would be very foolish if she were to begin by trying anything more formidable than a short story. Even here, she will do well to arrange for herself a plan of procedure. The plot, which, of course, needs nothing like the amount of elaboration given to a serial story, must, nevertheless, have a definite beginning and ending. Some of the most interesting short stories consist only of an incident or two from the life of an individual, while others include the principal events of a lifetime. In each, however, there must be some sort of climax -- something to lead the reader on with a sense that what is coming is of as much or more importance than what is past. It is very essential in story-writing, especially for magazines and for children, that the opening should be bright and attractive; but it is a most inartistic fault to let the interest created at the beginning gradually dwindle and die out before the end is reached. yet we need not search very far to find instances in print.

Having carefully thought out a plot, which must have enough incident, yet not be so overcrowded as to leave no space or scope for description, the first difficulty is generally where to begin. It does not necessarily follow that we must begin at the very beginning. It is often found advisable to seize a "situation" for a commencement, and then explain how the situation came about. A fair instance of what I mean occurs to me in the case of "Daniel Deronda," where the chief character, a beautiful girl, is displayed at a gaming table. The interest is at once seized: "How came that fair young creature in such a position as this, and will she go from bad to worse, or will she break through the temptation?" The key-note of interest is struck in the very first paragraph. We have already spoken in a former article of the great importance of being able to write to a given length. There is a great deal of nicety in proportioning the amount of incident to the amount of space at the writer's command. This can only be accurately estimated by practice, but I may warn the novice that the tendency of a story is to outrun the limits fixed, and that when she comes to write she will find many little points occur to her that will be necessary to the artistic development of the plot, but were unthought of in the general scheme.

It may be as well, in passing, to give a word or two to the subject of computation. If you take about a dozen lines, and strike the average of words in a line, and then compare the average of your own line with that of a magazine column, a small sum in arithmetic will very quickly show you how many of your own pages will fill the page of print. It is a good plan for those who write much to use always the same sized paper, as it saves both the editor and the author some amount of time and trouble in reckoning length. As a proof that this point of length is of importance to magazine writers, I cannot refrain from quoting the practice of a living editor, who occasionally writes to his staff contributors, "Can you let me have a short story in the course of a fortnight, consisting of about 2,180 words?"

Incidents and characters taken from life frequently form the groundwork of the best stories, and give the writer a great advantage in drawing truly life-like sketches, but she must beware of adhering too rigidly to the bare details. As a rule, incidents from life serve only as a foundation, the writer having to supply from her imagination many trifling incidents which are necessary for the completeness of the picture, or to add a conclusion which in the living type has not yet been arrived at, for fiction differs from reality in the same respect as the map of a country differs from that small portion which surrounds the space covered by our own two feet.

Children's stories form a branch of literature quite distinct, but are nevertheless capable of much artistic excellence. The aim of presenting true views of life is more than ever necessary here. The class of children's story with which all of us are familiar, connecting beauty with wickedness and plainness with virtue, is happily almost superseded by more rational and truthful pictures of child life. That intelligent children themselves are capable of criticising pretty accurately is shown by the following true incident: -- An old lady was telling her little granddaughter, who was supposed to have a penchant for all kinds of naughtiness, the story of a little boy who ran out of his mother's garden into some fields he had been forbidden to enter. "At last," said the old lady, "he came to a gate, and instead of turning back he clambered over into the next field. But he had not seen that there was a big bull behind the hedge. When the bull saw the naughty little boy he ran at him and tossed him, and that was the end of disobedient Charlie."

"Grandmamma," said the little girl of four, "now I'll tell you a story. There was once a little girl who was told not to go in the fields, but she was naughty and went. By-and-bye she came to a gate, but there wasn't any bull there, and it didn't toss her; so the naughty little girl got home safely."

The artistic fault in this anecdote was entirely in the way of telling it, which conveyed the impression that the child's disobedience was the cause of the bull being in the field, and that, seeing he was a naughty child, he indignantly and virtuously tossed him. The lesson sought to be conveyed that disobedience often brings children into trouble, and must sooner or later work them injury, is a true and just one, and even the commonplace incident in which it is embodied here might have been told in a way that would not violate even a child's notion of cause and result.

It is the opinion of the writer of this article that a child's story must always leave a pleasant impression on the mind of the youthful reader. Sunshine and cloud should no doubt be intermingled, but the sunshine should burst through and predominate. Happiness is the essential element of childhood, and it is the duty of the elders to shield them as much as possible from gloom and misery, which more often has a hardening than a softening effect. Their books, which represent life to them, ought, then, rather to deal with the happier phases of existence, and not introduce them prematurely to those aspects of it which have banished from their elders the innocent enjoyment and wide trustfulness they knew as children.

The construction of a long or continued story differs very greatly from a short one. Here some sort of plot is absolutely necessary, and, as a rule, requires to be most carefully and thoughtfully elaborated, the incidents interweaving and welding together, as the warp and woof of a piece of cloth. Development of character is an essential not necessarily entering into a short story. Instead of one point of interest there must be many, all leading up to and subservient to the grand denouement. If the story is to appear in serial form, each separate portion should contain some point to sustain and excite interest. In a long story we expect to find striking situations, descriptive power, dramatic force, or vivid character-painting, in addition to mere incident, and these points must be well kept in view, for some or other of them will certainly enter into the composition of a good story.

The best way for a beginner, when the main ideas of a plot have been brought together in the author's mind, is to sketch out a plan of the chapters. This will fix the incidents in the memory, and also give the cue where it is possible and advisable to make good points -- to seize an opportunity for a pretty piece of descriptive writing or a forcible situation. It will also be a very useful check against unduly lengthening out or hurrying any portion of the story, for if you should suddenly discover that you have occupied three parts of your space with less than half of your plot, you would know that the remaining portion of the story must be overcrowded with incident, or the plot be mutilated, very probably spoiling the symmetry of the whole work.

It is impossible to lay down any rules about style. If a writer has any title to write she will probably possess some individuality of her own, which it is quite desirable she should preserve. The study of good authors need not rob her of such individuality, although it will greatly assist her in the command of language, fluent expression, and grace of diction. If in the course of a story you come upon a paragraph that will not go right by means of a correction here and there, ruthlessly cut it out and turn the whole sentence or paragraph into quite a different form. It would seem almost needless to warn the tyro against copying the stereotyped forms appertaining to special writers, as, for instance, G. P. R. James's solitary horseman urging his steed at a furious pace over a bleak, desolate country; or the dark-haired, masculine villain, dear to the heart of many lady novelists; or the fair, treacherous woman, with her snake-like beauty, etc., etc. These points are emphatically to be avoided. Their respective authors have gained a place for their work by virtue of their talents and in spite of their peculiarities. To copy the oddities without displaying the talent would indeed by fatal.

In sending a story to an editor a brief resume of the plot should accompany it, more especially if the tale be a long one. By reading this and one or two chapters, the experienced judge will tell at once whether the MS. is likely to suit him, and it is obvious that the story of which the editor can see the scope almost at a glance is likely to receive the first attention.

A few words on the subject of publishing may not come amiss in this place. In order to get a book published, an untried author would certainly have to provide the necessary cost, the publisher, if it were a fairly good production, perhaps consenting to add the weight of his name on the title page. The probably result will be a heavy loss.

None but the most remarkable books will find a footing without an enormous amount of advertising, quite beyond the power of a private enterprise; and it is not at all to be wondered at that publishers should be extremely chary of risking outlay which is little likely to bring them any adequate return. It is hardly their fault if the public will not buy such books; to them it is simply a matter of pounds, shillings, and pence. But a writer of real ability stands a very good chance of finding an opening in magazine literature, as has been the case with the majority of our greatest authors, and, when firmly established in this sphere, will stand a much better chance of discovering a publisher who will purchase the copyright, and take all risks of publication.

In conclusion, I would say that the object of all fiction should be to convey some high moral or religious teaching, by depicting characters to be reverenced and imitated, or displaying unworthy conduct in its true light; and the writer who invests wickedness with a charm, or enlists all the interest of readers on the side of characters whose actions we know to be rather worthy of reprobation, is guilty of a greater evil than, we will charitably hope, she is at all aware of.

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Literary Work for Girls - by an Editor's Wife

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Excerpted from Girl's Own Paper, June 11, 1881.

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