Chapter I: Wish Incidentally to Thank You for Your Share in Making Life (2)

Edwards had never tried his hand at such a story. He knew, in a general way, that the "pilot" was on the front end of a locomotive, and that the "tender" was somewhere in the rear, but his technical knowledge was hazy and unreliable. The story, if accepted, was to appear in _The Railroad Man's Magazine_, would be read by "railroaders" the country over, and would be damned and laughed at if it contained any technical "breaks."

Here was just the sort of a nut Edwards liked to crack. The perils of the undertaking lent it a zest, and were a distinct aid to industry and inspiration. He resolved that he would give Mr. Davis a story that would bear the closest scrutiny of railroad men and win their interest and applause. To this end he studied railroads, up and down and across. He absorbed what he could from books, and the rest he secured through personal investigation. When the story was done, he submitted the manuscript to a veteran of the rails--one who had been both a telegraph operator and engineer--and this gentleman had not a change to suggest! Mr. Davis took the story aboard. While it was running in the magazine a reader wrote in to declare that it must have been written by an old hand at the railroad game: the author of the letter had been railroading for thirty-five years himself, and felt positive that he ought to know! "The Red Light at Rawlines" scored a triumph, proving the value of study, and the ability to adjust one's self to an untried situation.

Edwards had imbibed too much technical knowledge to exhaust it all on one story, so he wrote another and sent it to Mr. White. The latter informed him:

"I turned 'Special One-Five-Three' over to _The Railroad Man's
Magazine_ at once, without reading it, and they are sending you a
check for it this week, I understand. This does not mean that I did
not care to consider it for _The Argosy_. I certainly have an opening
for more of your stories, but when you took the railroad for your
theme and treated it so intelligently, I think it better that you
give _The Argosy_ some other subject matter."

Another story, written this year to order, also serves to show that facility in handling strange themes or environments does not always depend upon personal acquaintance with the subject in hand. Intelligent study and investigation can many times, if not always, piece out a lack of personal experience. Blazing a course through _terra incognita_ in such a manner, however, is not without its dangers.

Harte & Perkins wished to begin the yearly volume of _The Guest_ with a Stella Edwards serial. This story was to have, for its background, the San Francisco earthquake. Nearly the whole action of the yarn was to take place in the city itself. Edwards had never been there. He had vague ideas regarding the "Golden Gate," Oakland and other places, but for accurate knowledge he was as much at sea as in the case of the railroad story. He set the wheels of industry to revolving, however, and familiarized himself so thoroughly with the city from books, newspapers and magazines that the editor of _The Guest_, an old San Francisco newspaper man, had this to say about the story:

"It will please you to learn that we think 'A Romance of the
Earthquake' a very interesting story, with plenty of brisk action,
picturesque in description, and DISPLAYING A THOROUGH KNOWLEDGE OF
CALIFORNIA'S METROPOLIS AND VICINITY."

Although these are interesting problems to solve, yet Edwards, as a rule, prefers dealing with material that has formed a part of his own personal experiences.

His "prospecting" trip for the year brought him into New York on Monday, Nov. 12. On Tuesday (his "lucky day," according to the Coney Island seer of fateful memory), he called on Mr. White, and Mr. White took him across the hall and introduced him to Mr. Davis. The latter gentleman ordered four serials and, for stories of a certain length, agreed to pay $500 each.

Next day Edwards dropped in at the offices of Street & Smith and submitted a novelette--"The Billionaire's Dilemma"--to Mr. MacLean, editor of _The Popular Magazine_ (Mr. Lewis having retired from that publication some time before). Mr. MacLean carried the manuscript in to Mr. Vivian M. Moses, editor of _People's_ and the latter bought it. This story made a hit in the _People's_ and won from Mr. George C. Smith, of the firm, a personal letter of commendation. Result: More work for _The People's Magazine_.

About the middle of December, Edwards and his wife left for their home in Michigan. They had been in the city a month, and during that time Edwards had received $1150 for his Factory's products. The year, financially, was the best Edwards had so far experienced; but it was to be outdone by the year that followed.

During 1907 a great deal of writing was done for Mr. Davis. Among other stories submitted to him was one which Edwards called, "On the Stroke of Four." Regarding it Mr. Davis had expressed himself, May 6, in characteristic vein:

"My dear Colonel:

Send it along. The title is not a bad one. I suppose it will arrive
at a quarter past five, as you are generally late....

Now that spring is here, go out and chop a few kindlings against the
canning of the fruit. This season we are going to preserve every dam
thing on the farm. In the meantime, put up a few bartletts for little
Willie. We may drop in provided the nest contains room."

He received an urgent invitation to "drop in." But he didn't. He backed out. Possibly he was afraid he would have to "pioneer it" in the country, after years of metropolitan luxury in the effete East. Or perhaps he was afraid that Edwards might read some manuscripts to him. Whatever the cause, he never appeared to claim the "bartletts," made ready for him with so much painstaking care by Mrs. Edwards. But this was not the only count in the indictment. He sent back "On the Stroke of Four!" And this was his message:

"Up to page 106 this story is a peach. After that it is a peach, but
a rotten peach, and I'd be glad to have you fix it up and return it."

After Edwards has finished a story he has an ingrained dislike for tampering with it any further. However, had he not been head over ears in other work, he would probably have "fixed up" the manuscript for Mr. Davis. In the circumstances, he decided to try its fortunes elsewhere. Mr. Moses took it in, paid $400 for it, and pronounced it better than "The Billionaire's Dilemma."

At a later date, Mr. Davis wanted another sea story for _Ocean_ which, at that time, was surging considerably. "On the Stroke of Four" had been designed to fill such an order. Inasmuch as it had failed, Edwards wrote a second yarn which was accepted at $450.

The sea, and the people who go down to it in ships, to say nothing of the ships themselves, were all out of Edwards' usual line. He prepared himself by reading every sea story he could lay hands on, long or short. He bought text-books on seamanship and navigation, and whenever there were manoeuvers connected with "working ship" in a story, Edwards puzzled them out with the help of the text-books. With both deep-water serials he succeeded tolerably well. He is sure, at least, that he didn't get the spanker-boom on the foremast, nor the jib too far aft.

Harte & Perkins again favored the Factory with an order for a "Stella Edwards" to begin another volume of _The Guest_. This was an automobile story, "The Hero of the Car," and was accepted and highly praised.

Another novelette, "An Aerial Romance," was bought by Mr. Moses for _The People's Magazine_.

Beginning in March, Edwards had written some more nickel novels for Harte & Perkins--not the old Five-Cent Weekly, for that he was never to do again--but various stories, in odd lots, to help out with a particular series. On July 14 he was switched to another line of half-dime fiction, and this work he kept throughout the remainder of the year.

For the two years the Factory's showing stands as follows:

1906:
18 nickel novels @ $50 each $ 900.00
Royalties on book, Dillingham 10.20
"The World's Wonder," 300.00
"A Romance of the Earthquake," 250.00
"The Sheriff Who Lost and Won," 300.00
"The Reporter's Scoop," 60.00
"The Deputy Sheriff," 40.00
"The Red Light at Rawlin's," 350.00
"Cast Away by Contract,". 75.00
"Special One-Five-Three," 350.00
"The Disputed Claim," 500.00
"Fencing with Foes," 450.00
"The Billionaire's Dilemma,". 200.00
--------
Total $3785.20

1907:
"Under Sealed Orders," $ 250.00
"The Pacific Pearlers," 450.00
"Call of the West," 200.00
"Wilderness Gold-Hunter," 500.00
"Dupes of Destiny," 75.00
"On the Stroke of Four," 400.00
"The Hero of the Car," 300.00
"An Aerial Romance," 200.00
"West-Indies Mix-Up," 60.00
33 nickel novels @ $50 each 1650.00
--------
Total $4085.00

In that remarkable group of authors who made the dime novel famous,
the late Col. Prentiss Ingraham was one of the giants. These "ready
writers" thought nothing of turning out a thousand words of original
matter in an hour, in the days when the click of the typewriter
was unknown, and of keeping it up until a novel of 70,000 words
was easily finished in a week. But to Col. Ingraham belongs the
unique distinction of having composed and written out a complete
story of 35,000 words with a fountain pen, between breakfast and
breakfast. His equipment as a writer of stories for boys was most
varied and valuable, garnered from his experience as an officer in
the Confederate army, his service both on shore and sea in the Cuban
war for independence, and in travels in Mexico, Austria, Greece and
Africa. But he is best known and will be most loyally remembered
for his Buffalo Bill tales, the number of which he himself scarcely
knew, and which possessed peculiar value from his intimate personal
friendship with Col. Cody.

XXI.

A WRITER'S
READING

That old Egyptian who put above the door of his library these words, "Books are the Medicines of the Soul," was wise indeed. But the Wise, ever since books have been made, have harped on the advantage of good literature, and have said all there is to be said on the subject a thousand times over. If one has any doubts on this point let him consult a dictionary of quotations. No intelligent person disputes the value of books; and it should be self-evident that no writer, whose business is the making of books, will do so. To the writer books are not only "medicines for the soul" but tonics for his technique, febrifuges for his rhetorical fevers and prophylactics for the thousand and one ills that beset his calling. A wide course of general reading--the wider the better--is part of the fictionist's necessary equipment; and of even more importance is a specializing along the lines of his craft.

"Omniverous reader" is an overworked term, but it is perfect in its application to Edwards. From his youth up he has devoured everything in the way of books he could lay his hands on. The volumes came hap-hazard, and the reading has been desultory and, for the most part, without system. If engaged on a railroad story, he reads railroad stories; if a tale of the sea claims his attention, then his pabulum consists of sea-facts and fiction, and so on. The latest novel is a passion with him, and he would rather read a story by Jack London, or Rex Beach, or W. J. Locke than eat or sleep--or write something more humble although his very own. He is fond of history, too, and among the essayists he loves his Emerson. Nothing so puts his modest talents in a glow as to bring them near the beacon lights of Genius.

Edwards has a library of goodly proportions, but it is a hodge-podge of everything under the sun. Thomas Carlyle "keeps company" with Mary Johnston on his bookshelves, Marcus Aurelius rubs elbows with Frank Spearman, "France in the Nineteenth Century" nestles close to "The Mystery" from the firm of White & Adams, and four volumes of Thackeray are cheek by jowl with Harland's "The Cardinal's Snuff-Box." A most reprehensible method of book keeping, of course, but to Edwards it is a delightful confusion. To him the method is reprehensible only when he wants a certain book and has to spend half a day looking for it. Some time, some blessed time--he has promised himself for years and years,--he will catalogue his books just as he has catalogued his clippings.

Books that concern themselves with the writer's trade are many, so many that they may be termed literally an embarrassment of riches. If a writer had them all he would have more than he needed or could use. Books on the short story by J. Berg Eisenwein and James Knapp Reeve, Edwards considers indispensable. They are to be read many times and thoroughly mastered. "Roget's Thesaurus" is a work which Edwards consulted until it was dogeared and coverless; he then presented it to an impecunious friend with a well-defined case of _writeritis_ and has since contented himself with the large "Thesaurus Dictionary of the English Language," by F. A. March, LL. D. This flanks him on the left, as he sits at his typewriter, while Webster's "Unabridged" closes him in on the right. The Standard Dictionary is also within reach. Dozens and dozens of books about writers and writing have been read and are now gathering dust. After a writer has once charged himself to the brim with "technique," he should cease to bother about it. If he has read to some purpose his work will be as near technical perfection as is necessary, for unconsciously he will follow the canons of the art; while if he loads and fires these "canons" too often, they will be quite apt to burst and blow him into that innocuous desuetude best described as "mechanical." He should exercise all the freedom possible within legitimate bounds, and so acquire individuality and "style"--whatever that is.

No sane man in any line of trade or manufacturing will attempt to do business without subscribing to one or more papers or magazines covering his particular field. He wants the newest labor-saving wrinkle, the latest discoveries, tips on new markets, facts as to what others in the same business are doing, and countless other fresh and pertinent items which a good trade paper will furnish. A writer is such a man, and he needs tabulated facts as much as any other tradesman or manufacturer. Periodicals dealing with the trade of authorship are few, but they are helpful to a degree which it is difficult to estimate.

From the beginning of his work Edwards has made it a point to acquire every publication that dealt with the business of his Fiction Factory. In early years he had _The Writer_, and then _The Author_. When these went the way of good but unprofitable things, THE EDITOR fortunately happened along, and proved incomparably better in every detail.

From its initial number THE EDITOR has been a monthly guest at the Factory, always cordially welcomed and given a place of honor. Guide, counsellor and friend--it has proved to be all these.

Edwards subscribes heartily to that benevolent policy known as "the helping hand." Furthermore, he tries to live up to it. What little success he has had with his Fiction Factory he has won by his own unaided efforts; but there were times, along at the beginning, when he could have avoided disappointment and useless labor if some one who knew had advised him. Realizing what "the helping hand" might have done in his own case, he has always felt the call to extend it to others. Assistance is useless, however, if a would-be writer hasn't something to say and doesn't know how to say it. Another who has had some success may secure the novice a considerate hearing, but from that on the matter lies wholly with the novice himself. If he has it in him, he will win; if he hasn't, he will fail. Edwards' first advice to those who have sought his help has invariably been this: "Subscribe to THE EDITOR." In nearly every instance the advice has been taken, and with profitable results.

This same advice is given here, should the reader stand in need of a proper start along the thorny path of authorship. Nor is it to be construed in any manner as an advertisement. It is merely rendering justice where justice is due, and is an honest tribute to a publication for writers, drawn from an experience of twenty-two years "in the ranks."

XXII.

NEW SOURCES
OF PROFIT

The out-put of the Fiction Factory brought excellent returns during the years 1908 and 1909. Industry followed close on the heels of opportunity and the result was more than gratifying. The 1908 product consisted of forty-four nickel novels for Harte & Perkins, two novelettes for _The Blue Book_, four serials for the Munsey publications, and one novelette for _The People's Magazine_. This work alone would have carried the receipts well above those of the preceding year, but new and unexpected sources of profit helped to enlarge the showing on the Factory's books.

The rapidity with which Edwards wrote his serial stories--sometimes under the spur of an immediate demand from his publishers, and sometimes under the less relentless spur of personal necessity--seemed to preclude the possibility of profit on a later publication "in cloth." Only a finished performance is worthy of a durable binding. Realizing this, Edwards had never made a determined effort to interest book-publishers in the stories. In the ordinary course of affairs, and with scarcely any attention on his part, two serials found their way into "cloth." "Danny W.," accepted and brought out by Dodd, Mead & Co., was written for book publication, and serialized after it had appeared in that form. It fell as far short of a "best seller" as did the two republished serials.

Nevertheless, in spite of the fact that additional profit through publication in cloth seemed out of the question, Edwards wondered if there were not something else to be gained from the stories besides the serial rights.

His stories were dramatic and, in several instances, had appealed to play-writers. For a time he had hopes that dramatic rights might prove a source of additional income. His hopes, in this respect, have not been completely dashed, inasmuch as competent hands are at this date (September, 1911) fitting some of his stories for the stage. Something may come of it, but his experience has made him wary and he is not at all sanguine.

Eliminating book and dramatic rights from the equation, and what remained? A letter from Waltham, Mass., dated April 23, 1908, uncovered possibilities of which Edwards had never dreamed. Most of these possibilities, as it transpired, _were_ a dream, but, as in the matter of dramatic rights, some day the dream may come true in a large and substantial manner. Here is the letter:

"Dear Sir:

If you have not yet disposed of the sole and unrestricted rights
of translation into the GERMAN language of your books: 'The
Billionaire's Dilemma' and 'The Shadow of the Unknown,' will you
permit me to submit them to my GERMAN correspondents--some of the
best known GERMAN PUBLISHERS--with the idea of effecting a sale?

I shall require a single copy of 'The Billionaire's Dilemma,' but
not of 'The Shadow of the Unknown' having preserved the story as it
appeared first in the POPULAR,[J] to send abroad, with a statement of
the best terms you will make for the _cash out-right purchase of both
book and serial rights_.

If the serial rights of translation in GERMAN belong to the POPULAR,
you will have to come to a satisfactory understanding with them,
in order to legally assign to me the SERIAL, as well as your own
individual, book-rights, because all GERMAN publishers insist on
serial rights, although they seldom or never use them, as MAGAZINES
are not good and little used there.

My experience has been, that the MAGAZINE COMPANIES are very broad in
their treatment of their writers, and usually willing to re-transfer
their SERIAL rights of translation, in order to facilitate a sale,
and make them universally known.

Of course less is paid for translation rights of stories that have
only appeared in SERIAL form in the STATES.

If any of the publishers I represent purchases your stories, you
have the best possible guarantee of perfect translation and speedy
publication.

Awaiting the courtesy of an early reply and the necessary copy of
'The Billionaire's Dilemma,' I have the honor to be, dear Sir,

Yours very truly,
"Eugene Niemann."[K]

Several guns were fired during this invasion of Germany, but only one shell "went home." This was not the fault of Mr. Niemann. In Edwards' brief experience with him he found him always a scholar and a gentleman. Sincerity and courtesy were his never-failing traits. The pleasant little twists he gave his English, and the occasional naive expression that struggled through his typewriter, along with the prodigal use of "caps," will perhaps excuse a further offering from the correspondence. Here is the shot that hit the mark:

"May 12, 1908.

"Dear Sir:--

Before I have even had time to forward 'The Billionaire's Dilemma'
and 'On the Stroke of Four', and to await your other announced
stories, a letter comes from one of my German correspondents, saying
he had run through your short story: 'The Shadow of the Unknown' and
would purchase the rights of translation if you will accept an offer
of FORTY DOLLARS.

Perhaps you will say, "such an offer is absurd," but first let me
state to you, that the best books placed in GERMANY bring at the most
ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS, and oftener anywhere from FIFTY to ONE HUNDRED,
that the chief profit, is not a monetary one, rather the spreading
of the writer's name and fame.

'The Shadow of the Unknown,' writes the publisher, is a very short
story, and if you will be guided by my long experience, dear Sir,
you will accept the offer, in order to make our name popular and
facilitate a better sale of your following stories, which I shall
take double pleasure in forwarding, feeling surer of a good offer.

Were I guilty of business indiscretion, you would be surprised
to know the names of the already published 'BOOKS' I have sold
and am daily selling the GERMAN rights of, for hardly a monetary
consideration at all, and yet the literary satisfaction quite
out-balances all other considerations, does it not?

I enclose the customary form of assignment, which you can sign and
have duly witnessed by a NOTARY PUBLIC, if you see fit to accept the
offer, and which you will please then send me per AMERICAN EXPRESS C.
O. D. subject to examination to avoid every possible chance of error.

The personal receipt need not be signed before the NOTARY PUBLIC,
your signature without witness suffices.

Hoping to do much better for you with your other fine stories and
appreciating your confidence, I remain, dear Sir,

Very truly yours,
"EUGENE NIEMANN."

After the dust had settled, and the invasion was finally completed, $40 had been added to the year's receipts of the Fiction Factory; but Edwards clings to the hope that some day more of his "fine stories" may be greedily bought by the German publishers. These German publishers are honorable enough to buy, where they might pirate, and there are a few American publishers who might take lessons from them in business probity. With a small tidbit from a letter of May 18, the pleasant Mr. Niemann will be dismissed:

"Later, with your permission, I will take up the stories I sell in
GERMANY for sale in FRANCE, DENMARK, NORWAY and SWEDEN?

The monetary remuneration in the SCANDINAVIAN countries is yet
smaller than in GERMANY, but the people are fine readers, and that
for all, who truly LOVE their ART is the chief standpoint I take it?!"

During the latter part of July and the earlier part of August Edwards was in New York for a couple of weeks. As usual when in the city he worked even harder than he did at home. Two nickel novels were written, a serial was put through the Factory for Mr. Davis, and he collected $200 for a novelette which he sold to _People's_. There was an interesting, almost a humorous, circumstance connected with the serial.

Edwards called the story "The Man Who Left." When the manuscript was completed he took it in to Mr. Davis, and two or three days later called again to learn its fate.

The Munsey offices are up close to the roof in the Flatiron building. The lair of the editor who presides over the destinies of _The All-Story Magazine_, _The Railroad Man's Magazine_ and _The Scrap Book_[L] is flanked on one side by a prospect of space that causes the occasional caller to hang on to his chair. Across from this dizzy void is a partition hung with framed photographs of contributors--a rogues' gallery in which Edwards, when he last saw the collection, had a prominent place. North of an imaginary line drawn between the window and the partition sits the editor, grimly prominent against a motto-covered wall. As the caller faces the editor he is, of course, confronted by placards reminding him that "This is My Busy Day--Cut it Short," and "Find A Man for the Job not A Job for the Man," and others cunningly calculated to put him on tenterhooks.

To this place, therefore, came Edwards, proffering inquiries about "The Man Who Left." He read fateful things in the august countenance, and he was not surprised when Mr. Davis handed him a lemon, but he _was_ surprised when he took the lemon back.

"Rotten," said Mr. Davis, "r-r-rotten! When I'm out for peaches, Edwards, I side-step the under-ripe persimmons. 'The Man Who Left' ought to have made his get-away along about line one, paragraph one, chapter one; and then if he had staid out plumb to the place where you have written 'Finis' this gorgeous but unconvincing tale would have been vastly improved. Am I a Jasper that you seek thus to inveigle me into purchasing a gold-brick? Here, take it away! Now let me have it again. I am going to give you three hundred for it and tuck it away in the strong-box. Later you are to evolve, write and otherwise put upon paper a fictional prize for which 'The Man Who Left' will be returned to you in even exchange. Do you get me? 'Nuff said. I think you're out of mazuma, and that's why I'm doing this. My friends'll ruin me yet!"

Now the humor, if there is any, fits in about here: Edwards went back to Michigan and wrote a serial which he sent on to replace "The Man Who Left." Here is the letter in reply:

My dear Edwards:

While I was away on my vacation, some one spilled a pitcher of
milk. In other words, they put "The Man Who Left" to press for _The
All-Story Magazine_, and it is now too late to yank it back. That's
the trouble of leaving anything in the safe that should not be there.
You and I, however, being practical men, can understand the facility
with which the yarn was nabbed up.

Now, the point is, I can use the "Mydus" yarn and get a check off
to you next week, provided I have some basis on which to operate.
What's the lowest price for which you will give me 'Mydus,' call
all previous arrangements equal, and let things stand as they are.
The way to trim me and square accounts is to come back with a quick,
short, sharp, cheap reply, and let it go at that.

Hurry up this 'Mydus' business and we'll see what we can do.

Sincerely yours,
"R. H. DAVIS."

The spilling of that "pitcher of milk" while Mr. Davis was away on his vacation had netted Edwards just an even $300.

Another source of profit from the serial stories which the Fiction Factory had been turning out for years was revealed to Edwards in a letter dated Nov. 19, 1908. This, like the matter of translation rights, came to Edwards as a pleasant surprise; but, unlike the "German invasion," it was to prove vastly more profitable. Here is the letter:

"Dear Sir:

Upon looking over the files of _The Argosy_ we find that you have
written the following serial stories. Are the book rights of these
your property? If not, can you get Mr. Munsey to give them to you? If
you can, and will lengthen the stories to about 75,000 words, we will
pay you $100 each for the paper book rights of same.

We cannot offer you more, as we would put these out in cheap
paper edition, but this publication would do a great deal toward
popularizing your name and work with the class of readers who buy
_The Argosy_ and other fiction magazines.

The stories are as follows: (Here were listed the titles of seven
_Argosy_ serials.)

Very truly yours,
"STREET & SMITH."

Edwards caught at this opportunity. He failed to realize, at the time, just how much work was involved in lengthening the stories for paper-book publication. In his reply to Street & Smith he offered a list of forty-five serials, and promised others if they could use so many. He was requested, on Dec. 4, to forward copies of all the stories for reading. The same letter contained this paragraph:

"I note that your letter is dated December 2nd and that you state you
expect to be in New York inside of three weeks. I think it might be
to our mutual advantage if you could come on in a week or ten days,
for there is a new line of work which I think you could do for us
about which I would like to talk with you."

Just before Christmas Edwards and his wife arrived in New York. On some of the serials which had appeared in the Munsey magazines Edwards owned all but serial rights, but there were many more wherein all rights were held by the publishers.

The folly of a writer's selling all rights when disposing of a story for serial publication dawned upon Edwards very strongly, at this time. The conviction was driven "home" at a little dinner which Edwards tendered to several editors and readers. During the course of the dinner one of the guests--an editor in charge of a prominent and popular magazine--averred bluntly that "any writer who sells all rights to a story to a magazine using the story serially, is a fool."

With Edwards this sale of all rights had resulted from carelessness more than anything else, and had he not been dealing with friends like Mr. White and Mr. Davis he might have suffered financial loss because of his folly. Two or three interviews with Mr. Davis secured the paper-book rights, but with the understanding that if any of the lengthened stories were brought out in cloth, one-half of the royalties were to go to The Munsey Company.

In the whole list there were only seven stories long enough for immediate issue in paper-book form. These were paid for, at once. The other stories fell short of the required number of words all the way from 5,000 to 30,000 words. There was no profit to Edwards in lengthening the stories at the price of $100 each. What benefit he derived--and is now deriving, for the work continues--was in the advertising which the wide circulation of the paper-covered books afforded him. Also, Edwards considered the value of cementing his friendship with the old-established publishing house of Street & Smith, a house noted for the fairness of its dealings with contributors and for the prompt payment for all material upon acceptance. "Making good" with publishers of such high standing is always of inestimable value to a writer.

One of Street & Smith's editors, at this time, was St. George Rathborne, author of "Dr. Jack" and dozens of other popular stories that have appeared in paper covers. Here was another author who had become an editor, bringing to his duties an experience and ability that made for the highest success. Mr. C. A. MacLean, another member of the Street & Smith editorial staff, was also a gentleman with whom Edwards had occasional dealings. Mr. MacLean, beginning at the lowest rung of the ladder, had mounted steadily to the post of editor of _The Popular Magazine_ and _Smith's Magazine_, by sheer force of his own merit pushing those publications to the forefront of magazines of their class. To these gentlemen, and particularly to Mr. Rathborne,[M] Edwards is indebted for unfailing kindness and courtesy, and takes this means to acknowledge it.

The special work which was mentioned in Street & Smith's letter of Nov. 19 consisted of a new weekly publication for which Edwards was to furnish the copy. Seventy-five dollars each was to be paid for these stories.

With all this work ahead of the Fiction Factory, the year 1909 dawned in a blaze of prosperity. During 1909 Edwards found himself so busy with the paper-books and the other publication that he had no time for serial stories. After thirty-four issues the new publication was discontinued, and Edwards went back to writing novels for Harte & Perkins, at $60 each.

During 1909 Edwards tried his hand at moving pictures. The alluring advertisements under the scare-head, "We Pay $10 to $100 for Picture Plays," caught his eye and fired his ambition. He wrote a scenario, sent it in, and waited expectantly for his $100. He had been only two hours preparing the "photoplay" and it looked like "easy money." When the check arrived it was for $10! He wrote in to ask what had become of the remaining $90? Thus answered The Vitagraph Company of America, Oct. 27, '09:

"In regard to the payment for a manuscript of this character, we
never give more than ten dollars, for two or three reasons.

In the first place, we only use the idea. The manuscript has to be
revised in almost every instance in order to put it in practical
shape for the directors.

Again, they contain an idea which is more or less stereotyped or
conventional and cannot be claimed as entirely original only as
applied to the action of the play.

Regarding your own idea, I will frankly say that the same idea has
often been embodied in other plays, but the general suggestion of it
gives a new phase to the action of the idea.

THE EDITOR merely surmises, or so we think, that a thoroughly
original manuscript in practical shape would be worth at least $25,
but we seldom get one of that kind. We would welcome one at any time
and would pay its full value.

The members of our staff, who are obliged to write practical working
scenarios, appreciate the above facts because they know what it means
to perfect a scenario with the synopsis of the story, the properties,
settings, &c., &c.

We merely state these things so you will understand that we are
thoroughly fair in your case and will certainly be so in every
instance.

Ideas, if they are entirely original, would be worth more than ten
dollars, but they are scarcer than hen's teeth at any price.

We find most of the ideas which we receive, and we receive hundreds
of them, are nothing but repetition or old ones in new guises.

Again we will say, if we can get original ideas we will pay their
full value."

Another case of _sic transit_--this time, _sic transit mazuma_.

Here follows a transcript from the Factory's books for the two years with which this chapter has dealt:

1908:
Dillingham, last royalties on "Tales of Two Towns" $ 1.50
45 nickel novels @ $50 each 2250.
"The Shadow of the Unknown" 200.
"The Shadow of the Unknown," translation rights 40.
"Parker & O'Fallon" 300.
"In the Valley's Shadow" 200.
"The Man Who Left," 300.
"Trail of the Mydus," 350.
"Just A Dollar," 350.
"Frisbie's Folly," 350.
"The Man Called Dare," 300.
"The Streak of Yellow," 200.
7 paper-book rights at $100 each, 700.
--------
Total, $5541.50

1909:
34 issues "Motor Boys" @ $75 each $ 2550.
21 paper-book rights @ $100 each 2100.
9 nickel novels @ $60 each, 540.
"The Stop on the 'Scutcheon," short story 35.
Moving-picture, 10.
"Breaking Even," short story 40.
"Divided by Eight," short story 35.
-------
Total $ 5310.

The following advertisement from an English paper, which is vouched
for, once more illustrates the truth of the statement that fact is
stranger than fiction. The owner of the houses, it may be mentioned,
was ill in bed, far away, and the neighbors evidently did not
question the right of the men to do as they did. The advertisement is
as follows:

LOST.--Three fine cottages have mysteriously disappeared from the
property Nos. 296, 298 and 300 High road, Willesden Green, London.
Please communicate with J. M. Godwin, 71 Bank Street, London, W. C.

* * * * *

O. Henry told a whimsical tale of what he considered unfair competition in the short story field. He was in the office of a big magazine, when he witnessed the return to a dejected looking young fellow of a couple of manuscripts. "I am sorry for that fellow," said the editor. "He came to New York from New Orleans a year ago, and regularly brings some stories to our office. We can never use them. He doesn't make a dollar by his pen, and he is getting shabby and pale." A month or so later O. Henry saw the same writer in the same office, and the editor was talking to him earnestly. "You had better go back to New Orleans," said that gentleman. "Why?" said the young man. "Some day I may write a story you may want." "But you can do that just as well in New Orleans," said the editor, "and you can save board bills." "Board bills," ejaculated the young man. "What do I care about board bills! I have an income of twenty thousand a year from my father's estate."

FOOTNOTES:

[J] A mistake, the story appeared in =The Blue Book=.

[K] Edwards uses a fictitious name for this correspondent.

[L] Now no more as =The Cavalier=, the former monthly, now a weekly has "absorbed" =The Scrap Book=.

[M] Mr. Rathborne has recently given up his editorial duties and has retired to what seems to be the ultimate goal of writers and editors--a farm. He is somewhere in New Jersey.

XXIII.

THE INJUSTICE
OF IT

The commercial world may hearken sentimentally to that plaintive ballad, "Silver Threads Among the Gold," as it floats into the Emporium from a street organ, but the commercial world never allows sentiment to interfere with business. When a man presents himself and asks for a job, he is examined for symptoms of decrepitude before his mental abilities are canvassed. The wise seeker for place, before making the rounds of the Want Column, will see to it that his hair is of a youthful color, for there is nothing so damned by the octopus of trade as hoary locks. A bottle of walnut juice, carefully administered, may bridge the gap and lead from failure to success.

"New blood!" that's the cry. "Age is too conservative, too partial to the old and outworn standards, too apt to keep in a rut. Give us the mop of black hair and the bright, snappy eye! Give us energy and brilliant daring and a fresh view-point! We'll be taking a few chances, but what of that? We must follow the fashion."

Some of the publishers have gone to the extreme of the prevailing mode. The yearling from the football field, if he happens to have been sporting editor of the college journal, is brought to the sanctum, shoved into the chair of authority, and given $50 a week and the power to go ahead and be ruthless. He rarely disappoints his employer. Whenever he does, his employer is to be congratulated. Usually, however, he sticks to his schedule. He thinks he is Somebody, and attempts to prove it by kicking all the old contributors out of the office and forwarding invitations for manuscripts to every member of the Class of '10.

There is no writer of experience who has failed to meet this sort of editor. For years a publishing house may have steadily increased in power and prestige through the loyalty and labor of the old contributor, only to give some darling of the campus a desk and the authority to begin oslerizing faithfulness and ability.

This injustice would be humorous were some of its aspects not so tragic. The smug publishers themselves may have something to answer for. They have wrung their ratings in Dun and Bradstreet from the old contributor, and when they abandon a policy that has brought success they are steering through troubled waters and into unknown seas.

For anything short of incompetence this casting aside of the old in order to try out the new is reprehensible. To weather a decade or two of storm and stress a writer must have been versatile. Versatility increases with his years, and he is as capable of brilliant daring and a fresh viewpoint as any youth in the twenties.

Times out of number this has been made manifest. Stories disguised with a pen-name and a strange typewriter have won welcome and success where the old name and the old typewriter would have insured rejection. Note this from one who has been twenty-five years at the game:

"In the near-humorous line I may mention the fact that I once tried
to get the editor of a certain paper to let me furnish him a serial,
but he didn't think I could write it. Soon afterward a friend who had
been contributing serials to that particular paper was asked by the
editor to furnish a serial. As it chanced, the writer happened to be
engaged in other work. So he came to me and wanted to know if I could
not write the desired serial. When I informed him that the editor had
turned my offer down, he then suggested that I write the serial and
let him send it in under his own name. It was a chance to try the
sagacity of that particular editor. I salved my conscience, wrote the
serial, and my typewritten copy was submitted to the editor under
the name of my friend. The serial was accepted, with medals thrown
all over it--my literary friend being informed that it was just the
thing the editor wanted, and that he had hard work to get authors
who could suit his view as to what was available for his particular
publication. My friend got the honor, if there was any, of seeing the
serial run under his name; and I got the money for doing the work."

If an author ever suffers an editor's contempt, what must the editor suffer on being caught red-handed in such a way as this? It is the worm's prerogative to turn whenever it finds the opportunity.

Illustrating this point, and several other points with which this chapter is concerned, the following letter from another writer, who has been turning out successful manuscripts for upward of twenty years, is reproduced:

"Dear Bro. Edwards:

You certainly DO put a poser to me. At the present time I have
difficulty in seeing anything that has happened to me in the
twenty-odd years of my following the literary game in anything but
a tragic light. I believe my success, such as it was, was tragic.
At least, it has rivetted my reputation to a certain class of
literature--heaven save the mark!--and makes it almost impossible
for me to sell anything of a better quality. I might tell you of
plenty of cruel things that have been done to me by publishers and
editors when they knew or suspected that I was hard up; and plenty of
silly things done to me by the same folk when they thought I didn't
particularly NEED their money. But funny things----?

It's the point of view makes the thing funny. The child pulling the
wings off a fly to see the insect crawl over the window pane is
amused; but I don't suppose the fly sees the humor of the situation.
I could tell you tales of submitting the same manuscript three times
to an editor whom we both know well, having it shot through with
criticism the first two times and then having it accepted and paid
for at extra rates within two years of the first submission, and
without even a word of the title changed! Is THAT the kind of an
incident you want?

One of the funniest things that ever happened to me was that an
editor of a popular magazine used to say that my stuff resembled
Dickens, and when I wrote half-dime novels the readers used to write
in and say the same. The quality of mind possessed by the scholarly
editor and the street boys who read 'Bowery Billy' must be somewhat
the same--eh?

There was once a magazine that bore as its title the name of a
publisher as famous as any American ever saw, and the editor bought
a story of me at the rate of half a cent a word, and owed me two
years for it. Finally, one time when I was very hard up I went to the
office and hung around until I could see the 'boss' and put it up to
him to pay me. He did. He knocked off 33 1-3 per cent for 'cash.'
Pretty good, eh?

I tell you, Edwards, there's nothing funny in the game that I can
see--not for the so-called literary worker. The gods may laugh when
they see a man with that brand of insanity on him that actually
forces him to write. But I doubt if the writer laughs--not even if
he writes a 'best seller.' For success entails turning out other
successes, and that is hard work. Excuse me! I am going back to the
farm. I will write only when I have to, and only as long as my farm
will not support me. I've got hold of a pretty good place cheap, down
here with the outlook of making a good living on it in time. No more
the Great White Way, with the Dirty Black Alley behind it, in mine!
I am not going to carry my hat in my hand around to editors' offices
and take up collections for long. Besides, most of the editors
blooming now are just out of college and are not dry behind the ears
yet. They think that Johnny Go-bang, who edited the sporting page in
the Podunk University Screamer, knows more about writing fiction than
the old fellows who have been at it a couple of decades. And I reckon
they are right. They are looking for 'fresh' material; some of it is
pretty 'raw' as well as fresh. I fooled an editor the other day by
sending a manuscript on strange paper, written on a new typewriter,
and with an assumed name attached. Sold the story and got a long
letter of encouragement from the editor. Great game--encouraging
'new' writers! About on a par with the scheme some rum sellers have
of washing their sidewalks with the dregs of beer kegs. The spider
and fly game. Now, if I told that editor what an ass he had made of
himself, would he ever buy another manuscript of me again? I fear not!

Perhaps I am pessimistic, Brother Edwards. There's no real fun in
the writing game--not for the writer, at least. Not when he is forty
years old and knows that already he is a 'has-been.' Good luck to
you. Hope your book is a success, and if I really knew just what
you wanted I'd try to whip something into shape for you. For you
very well know that, if other fiction writers give you incidents for
your book, they'll mostly be fiction! That is the devil of it. If a
fiction writer cuts a sliver off his thumb while paring the corned
beef for dinner, he will make out of the story a gory combat between
his hero and a horde of enemies, and give details of the carnage fit
to make his own soul shudder.

I hope to meet up with you again some time. But pretty soon when I go
to New York I'll wear my chin-whiskers long and carry a carpet-bag;
and you bet I'll fight shy of editors' offices."

Another example of injustice to writers which, however, happened to turn out well for the writer:

"I offered a short serial to a certain newspaper syndicate. Soon
I received a letter saying they could pay me $200 for the serial
rights. Before my letter accepting the offer reached them, I had
another letter from the syndicate withdrawing the offer. The editor
stated pathetically that the proprietor had returned and had asked
him to withdraw it. I then sent the serial to a Chicago newspaper,
which paid me $200 for serial rights--BUT NEVER PUBLISHED THE STORY.
Finally I rewrote the story, had it published as a book by a leading
Eastern publishing house, and it sold well."

Here, again, is injustice of another kind:

"Once a certain Eastern magazine authorized me to go to Santa Fe, New
Mexico, and write a description of a Pueblo dance and of Pueblo life,
and send the manuscript on with photographs for illustration. I did
the work. And I was rewarded by the generous editor with a check for
$20! You can imagine how profitable that particular stunt was, for
I took a week's time and paid my own expenses. But not out of that
twenty. There wasn't enough of it to go 'round."

XXIV.

WHAT SHALL
WE DO
WITH IT?

Edwards wrote only one serial story during 1910, and turned his hand to that merely to bring up the financial returns and leave a safe margin for expenses. Nickel novels, a few short stories, a novelette for _The Blue Book_ and the lengthening of two stories for paper-book publication comprised the year's work. He "soldiered" a little, but when a writer "soldiers" he is not necessarily idle. Edwards' thoughts were busy, and the burden of his reflections was this: Heaven had endowed him with a small gift of plot and counter-plot, and a little art for getting it into commercial form; but were his meager talents producing for him all that they should? Was the purely commercial aim, although held to with a strong sense of moral responsibility, the correct aim? After a score of years of hard work did he find himself progressing in any but a financial direction? Forgetting the past and facing the future with eyes fixed at a higher angle, how was he to proceed with his "little gift of words?" What should he do with it?

In the bright summer afternoons Edwards would walk out of his Fiction Factory and make a survey of it from various points. He was always so close to his work that he lost the true perspective. He was familiar with the minutiae, the thousand and one little details that went to make up the whole, but how did it look in the "all-together," stripped of sentiment and beheld in its three dimensions?

Paradoxically, the work appeared too commercial in some of its aspects, and not commercial enough in others. The sordid values were due to the demand which came to Edwards constantly and unsolicited, and which it was his unvarying policy always to meet. "All's fish that comes to the writer's net" was a saying of Edwards' that had cozzened his judgment. He was giving his best to work whose very nature kept him to a dead level of mediocrity. And within the last few years he had become unpleasantly aware that at least one editor believed him incapable of better things. This was largely Edwards' fault. Orders for material along the same old lines poured in upon him and he hesitated to break away from them and try out his literary wings.

Years before he had faced a similar question. The same principal of breaking away from something that was reasonably sure and regular for something else not so sure but which glowed with brighter possibilities, was involved. Vaguely he felt the call. He was forty-four, and had left behind him twenty-odd years of hard and conscientious effort. As he was getting on in years so should he be getting on with some of his dreams, before the light failed and the Fiction Factory grew dark and all dreaming and doing were at an end.

One evening in Christmas week, 1910, he mentioned his aspirations to a noted editor with whom he happened to be at dinner. The book that was to bring fame and fortune, the book Edwards had always been going to write but had never been able to find the time, was under discussion. "Write it," advised the noted one, "but not under your own name."