years ago there was a movement against the supremacy of plot, or subject, in art The cry was—“Subject is nothing; treatment is everything.” The general public, following for once a classical ideal of taste, would not tolerate this theory, which has now died a natural death. I will quote from an illuminative essay of Matthew Arnold’s, slightly altering the phraseology to suit the case. He says: “It is a pity that power should be wasted, and that the novelist should be compelled to impart interest and force to his subject, instead of receiving them from it, and thereby doubling his impressiveness.” I italicise this epigrammatic statement, because it is of paramount importance, and goes to the very root of fiction as of every other creative art. Matthew Arnold, who got his ideas from the Greeks, enumerated three principles as being vital to good art:—
(1) The all-importance of the choice of a subject
(2) The necessity of accurate construction.
(3) The subordinate character of expression.
And the curious thing is that these three principles are vital not only to good art but to commercial or popular art. It will be equally to your advantage to conform to them, whether your aim is to produce a rival to Adam Bede or to thrill the readers of a halfpenny paper with a sensational serial.
The very Short Story.
Much nonsense has been talked about the short story. It has been asserted that Englishmen cannot write artistic short stories, that the short story does not come naturally to the Anglo-Saxon. Whereas the truth is that nearly all the finest short-story writers in the world to-day are Englishmen, and some of the most wonderful short stories ever written have been written by Englishmen within the last twenty years. It has also been stated that the short-story form is exceedingly difficult, and that “the art of the short story” is an art by itself. This is not so. No one has yet shown wherein the art of the short story differs from the art of the novel. And there can be no doubt in the mind of any expert who has succeeded equally well in the short story and the novel that a short story is a simpler achievement than a novel. It may be easier to write a bad novel than a good short story, but it is manifestly absurd to argue that a good novel is easier to accomplish than a good short story. One might as usefully assert, in the art of music, that it was easier to compose a symphony than an “album-leaf,” because in the symphony there was no restriction of space. Similar powers of observation, invention, imagination, and description are needed in the novel and in the short story. But the constructive power and the sustained strength required for a good novel far exceed those required for a good short story. The short story is the simplest form of fiction, and the shorter it is the simpler it is. The beginner should therefore begin with very short stories.
Process of Invention.
The minimum length of the short story of commerce is about one thousand five hundred words, and the tyro will do well to try that length. I will attend him in detail through his maiden enterprise. A work of fiction should properly take shape in the mind of the author in the following stages: —First, he should get a notion of the scene and general environment; then, the characters should present themselves, springing out of the environment; last of all, the plot should present itself, springing out of the characters. This natural order applies both to novels and to short stories; but it perhaps applies more particularly to novels; and in short stories the actual practice is often a reversal of the order. The central idea of the plot comes first, then the characters, then the environment.
The plot of a fifteen-hundred-word story cannot be much more than a mere episode. But, however slight a plot is, it must have a central idea; it must have a “point”; it must raise an issue and settle that issue; the interest of the reader having been excited must be fully satisfied. In other words, the plot must be complete; it cannot be a mere slice cut from something longer. In inventing his plot, the tyro should err on the side of melodrama and ingenuity, rather than on the side of quietude and simplicity. What he wants is a tale that “tells itself,” a striking situation, a novel climax. Too much plot is better than not enough plot. I can offer no suggestions as to subject; the story may or may not relate to love; but it must not end unhappily—this is essential.
Having arrived at a fairly precise notion of his story, the tyro should write down the naked plot in two or three hundred words, or he should explain it to a friend. If the plot will not stand this test, it is not a good plot for his purposes. If it will, he may proceed, for a tale that looks interesting in outline will bear telling in full. When he has briefly sketched his plot in writing, and is convinced that it works up to a good climax and is complete in itself, he will decide definitely on the environment and on the minor details. The story ought now to lie before his mind’s eye like a map. Small as it is, it will divide itself naturally into several parts. He must not begin the story with a piece of explanation. Begin always with action, so that the reader’s interest may be aroused at once; necessary explanations and descriptions must come later.
Here let me insist on an extremely inportant rule of composition that specially applies to the very short story. Every part of a work of fiction should serve more than one purpose. If it is necessary, for instance, that a character should be described, the writer must not be content with describing it; he must devise such incidents as will illustrate the character in action. Assuming that for the proper effectiveness of his climax certain preliminary incidents are required, and also certain preliminary expositions of character, the writer might of course invent incidents which merely prepared the reader for the climax, and he might separately analyse and set forth the character; ultimately he would arrive at his climax. But how much neater, cleaner, more economical, and more effective, if he takes the trouble to invent incidents which serve the double purpose of leading up to the climax and of illustrating the character! The short - story writer, like the juggler who simultaneously spins a plate in one hand, tosses three balls in the other, and balances a stick on his nose, must know how to do several things at once.
The Execution.
Before he begins to write out the story in full, he must have a clear, accurate, and complete idea of what he is going to write; he must have meditated so long upon his subject that he is full and running over with it He must have seen the scene, and he must know a great deal more about the scene than he can possibly put down. In order to increase the intensity of the imaginative effort which must accompany the writing of good fiction, he should take the story part by part and concentrate his mind entirely on each part as he executes it In writing the opening bit of action, for example, he should think of nothing but that particular fragment By this means, renewing the effort again and again as the story progresses, he will obtain better results than by dealing with the story as one indivisible whole.
He must be careful not to commit any small sins against the great law of Probability. In fiction, especially commercial fiction, you may steal a horse with impunity, but you are a rash fool if you look over a gate. In its essence, all fiction is wildly improbable, and its fundamental improbability is masked by an observance of probability in details. While the tyro, therefore, may be perfecdy aware that his central idea is somewhat strained, he should tolerate no avoidable straining in the details of its execution. His characters may be compelled to act in a manner contrary to human nature, but they need not make speeches contrary to human nature. And even if they are compelled to make speeches contrary to human nature, they need not employ phrases and turns of speech which no living person ever did employ. For instance, when Dick Trevelyan, aged twenty-five, meets Lady Mildred Trefusis, aged forty, after an absence of seven years, it is extremely improbable that Dick would return thanks to Lady Mildred for having spoken nicely to him when he was eighteen; young men do not do these things. Hence Dick should not make any such speech to Lady Mildred. But if for the purposes of the story such a speech from Dick is necessary, even then he need not be forced to say: “It was extremely kind of you, Lady Mildred, to deign to take notice of an unlicked cub:" Dick will more vitally impress himself on the reader if
