The Essence of the Short Story

Plot and character—let these words be at once your inspiration and your law. For there is no story without these, the essences. Humor and pathos, subtle tenderness, suspense, philosophy, surprise, dramatic climax—all these may be added, giving color, flavor, spice; but plot and character, the essences, must be there or the whole will "fall flat," a metaphor which all who have made cake or made stories will understand.

Plot, most difficult of words to define, is a sequence of events, trivial or astonishing in themselves as it may be, but

always probable and convincing, which leads to a change or climax in the life of one or more characters; a change or a climax so important or interesting that it arrests, holds and satisfies the reader's curiosity. No item of real news in this morning's paper but is either a plot or a bit of a plot—a link in the chain which is the story. The great news stories are those which give or strongly indicate all the links, so that you grasp in half a column the life tragedy or life comedy of your neighbor.

The news story is but one link, generally, of the plot, is but the germ of the story. You must build backwards and often forwards. Only imagination does this work.

And now—character. If the news story is but one link for our plot, it is in most cases even less for our character. The ability to see and to present character is even more rare than the ability to find and weld the links of a plot. The two vivid qualities that distinguish authors—first, the scent for plot; second, the inward eye for character—are not often found equally strong in one person. That is why there are not more great stories. How many rattling good yarns we read—and straightway forget! They are the product of the plot brain. Again, we pore admiringly over a literary work, come to know thoroughly the soul and heart and mind of several very real people, but sigh wearily at the end, or before the end: "It isn't a story!" We have been under the lighter thrall of the character seer.

Now, it is of most significance for practical writers to note this: while character presentation is unquestionably the highest realm of art, it is the story with plot, plot, plot, that is most in demand.

How, then, are we to grasp the chain of events that make up a plot ? Every news story has a link, every day of your life has one or several links. The difficulty is in recognizing the significance of the event and in following it forward or backward until you have the chain complete, the drama of life.

Take any story you ever wrote or dreamed. Can't you remember its birth? A memory, a face, a moment's mooning over a line or two you'd read, and suddenly the chain lay outspread, glittering, and calling to you for expression. And the failures! the links that allured until we found a broken one; the awkward patchwork that wrecked the story because the link was not true. These are the joys and tragedies of writing.

The newspaper with its scrappy ends and odds of life; the pictures and illustrations you see; the books you read; and most of all, your life—your dreams, your works, your failures, your loves and memories—these are the sources of all plots.

It is the blood of life that makes a short-story, not the technique. Of the "stories" that are sent back to the wistful, nine out of ten are failures not so much for lack of art as for lack of plot, of life. Live that- you may write. Only by knowing life can you recognize the links of a plot; only by knowing men and women can you see and interpret character.

And the other part is the writing, and the placing, of the story.

First, let us calmly admit that we must write for to-day, even though we are writing for all time. And the public of today have certain very decided preferences to which the arbiters of writers' fates, the magazine editors, sedulously cater.

We have dwelt long on plot and character, and we take it for granted that you have one or both of these ready. A tale may go without character worthy the name; a storiette may win place without plot, though this is not so often found in print now as it used to be, for the character sketch is not meat for the millions. The real story, we repeat, must have both plot and character.

First, let us make it as pleasant as possible. Cruelty is a puerile characteristic. Treat your characters as you would have them treat you, and let the reader keep his roseate glasses. A literary cynic is pretty sure to be either a genius or a fool— don't run the risk.

Let us make it as short, crisp and snappy as possible. It is wonderful what cutting a strong-minded author can achieve, and what strength comes from it. You must know all about your characters and their lives; your readers must not—it would bore them.

Be dramatic! This is not to press your exclamation point repeatedly; but study to bring out every source of weight in every situation throughout your story. Preserve the proportions, letting the interest work up from the less important situations to that great point which comes in all true stories just as surely as in all true plays, though in stories it is seldom brought out so prominently—the climax.

Continuity and proportion. Have you studied these difficult problems? How some writers do achieve that flowing

Sequence that is almost a rhythm of thought, and is a distinct art, or a divine gift, of itself, is always a marvel to me. But at least we may preserve the connection and tell our story straight. Cast out all reminiscences, all back steps, even though it burn your proud heart to do it. And let us even beware of devoting many paragraphs to our introduction, or to description, or oilier trumpery, just because a fatal flow of limpid words dripped off our pens along there. Every link along our line of plot is worth just so much; and by every word above that amount you give it, you weaken your really important link. After the fault of not having a story to tell, this fault of the "out of proportion" is perhaps most common of all.

Be humorous, if you can, and be witty, is a very good rule. But a better is: if you can't, don't try; and if you're not sure about it, cut it altogether away. But oh! humor and wit are precious gifts. They open all doors. If Momus keeps bobbing up, be glad, for he'll make easy the way for you sometime.

A certain sureness of tone, a maturity, a view-point, what Jack London has called a philosophy of life, is one of the greatest helps to one who writes. It throws over all work the halo of one who has found himself. It is attained only by passing through the storm and stress of life. Did not Jack London find his in the long, bitter struggle? And—well, most of us who write find the storm and stress, don't we?. It is good to know that it will be of value in our work.

The use of tenderness and pathos, closely allied, comes best by having known them in life, too. And while they are not so often found in short stories nowadays, they are effective means when used with sincerity. Of course, they must never be dragged in; unless they are born of the story and its characters, they are as tawdry as stage trappings in a forest.

The element of suspense is one of the most valuable of all the art's treasures. It holds that malignant cynic—he isn't really, you know—the editor's paid reader. And it sells the story. It is great trickery, often great art, and may be made a profitable study.

Style. Read well and write hard; that's all. These are the chief virtues a writer of short-stories must strive to attain. That all will, that all have, fallen short of these virtues it is needless to admit. But forever striving for perfection is what wins acceptance.

And finally, again—get a plot, and know character; get thee out of thy nunnery of a narrow life, out into the world of all sorts of men and women; live that you may write.

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