by Frank Norris
Catch him unawares and what is he doing? As like as not writing unsigned book reviews at five dollars a week in order to pay his board bill — and glad of the chance.
It seems incredible. But one must remember this: That for every one person who buys a book, there will be six who will talk about it. And the half-thousand odd reviewers who are writing of the book do not buy it, but receive “editorial” copies from the publishers, Upon which no royalty is paid.
I know it for an undisputed fact that a certain novel which has ever been called the best American novel of the nineteenth century, and which upon publication was talked about, written about and even preached about, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, took ten years in which to attain the sale of 10,000 copies. Even so famous, so brilliant an author as Harold Frederic did not at first sell conspicuously. “That Lawton Girl,”
“The Copperhead,”
“Seth’s Brother’s Wife,” masterpieces though they are, never made money for the writer.
Each sold about 2,000 copies. Not until “Theron Ware” was published did Mr. Frederic reap his reward.
Even so great a name as that of George Meredith is not a “sesame,” and only within the last few years has the author of “Evan Harrington” made more than five or six hundred dollars out of any one of his world-famous books.
But of course there is another side. For one thing, the author is put to no expense in the composing of his novel. (It is not always necessary to typewrite the manuscript.) The carpenter must invest much money in tools; must have a shop. Shop rent and tools repaired or replaced cut into his $1,800 of profit. Or take it in the fine arts. The painter must have a studio, canvases, models, brushes, a whole equipment; the architect must have his draughting room, the musician his instrument. But so far as initial expense is concerned, a half-dollar will buy every conceivable necessary tool the novelist may demand. He needs no office, shop or studio; models are not required. The libraries of the city offer him a quiet working place if the home is out of the question. Nor, as one has so often urged, is any expensive training necessary before his money-earning capacity is attained. The architect must buy instruction for many years. The painter must study in expensive studios, the musician must learn in costly conservatories, the singer must be taught by high-priced maestros. Furthermore, it is often necessary for the aspirant to travel great distances to reach the cities where his education is to be furthered; almost invariably a trip to and a residence in Europe is indispensable. It is a great undertaking and an expensive one to prepare for the professions named, and it takes years of time — years during which the aspirant is absolutely non-productive.
But the would-be novel writer may determine between breakfast and dinner to essay the plunge, buy (for a few cents) ink and paper between dinner and supper, and have the novel under way before bedtime.
How much of an outlay of money does his first marketable novel represent? Practically nothing. On the other hand, let us ask the same question of, say, the painter. How much money has he had to spend before he was able to paint his first marketable picture? To reach a total sum he must foot up the expenses of at least five years of instruction and study, the cost of living during that time, the cost of materials, perhaps even the price of a trip to Paris. Easily the sum may reach $5,000.
Fifty cents’ worth of ink and paper do not loom large beside this figure.
Then there are other ways in which the fiction writer may earn money — by fiction. The novelist may look down upon the mere writer of short stories, or may even look down upon himself in the same capacity, but as a rule the writer of short stories is the man who has the money. It is much easier to sell the average Short story than the average novel. Infinitely easier. And the short story of the usual length will fetch-$100. One thousand people — think of it — one thousand people must buy copies of your novel before it will earn so much for you. It takes three months to complete the novel — the novel that earns the $250. But with ingenuity, the writer should be able to turn out six short stories in the same time, and if he has luck in placing them there is $600 earned — more than twice the sum made by the novel. So that the novelist may eke out the alarming brevity of his semiannual statements by writing and selling “short stuff.”
Then — so far as the novel is concerned — there is one compensation, one source of revenue which the writer enjoys and which is, as a rule, closed to all others. Once the carpenter sells his piece of work it is sold for good and all. The painter has but one chance to make money from the sale of his picture. The architect receives payment for his design and there is the end. But the novelist — and one speaks now of the American — may sell the same work over many times. Of course, if the novel is a failure it is a failure, and no more is said. But suppose it is a salable, readable, brisk bit of narrative, with a swift action and rapid movement. Properly managed, this, under favourable conditions, might he its life history: First it is serialized either in the Sunday press or, less probably, in a weekly or monthly. Then it is made up into book form and sent over the course a second time. The original publisher sells sheets to a Toronto or Montreal house and a Canadian edition reaps a like harvest. It is not at all unlikely that a special cheap cloth edition may be bought and launched by some large retailer either of New York or Chicago. Then comes the paper edition — with small royalties, it is true, but based upon an enormous number of copies, for the usual paper edition is an affair of tens of thousands. Next the novel crosses the Atlantic and a small sale in England helps to swell the net returns, which again are added to — possibly — by the “colonial edition” which the English firm issues. Last of all comes the Tauchnitz edition, and with this (bar the improbable issuing of later special editions) the exploitation ceases. Eight separate times the same commodity has been sold, no one of the sales militating against the success of the other seven, the author getting his fair slice every time. Can any other trade, profession or art (excepting only the dramatist, which is, after all, a sister art) show the like? Even (speaking of the dramatist) there may be a ninth reincarnation of the same story and the creatures of the writer’s pages stalk forth upon the boards in cloak and buskin.
And there are the indirect ways in which he may earn money. Some of his ilk there are who lecture. Nor are there found wanting those who read from their own works. Some write editorials or special articles in the magazines and newspapers with literary departments. But few of them have “princely” incomes.
THE “VOLUNTEER MANUSCRIPT”
At a conservative estimate there are 70,000,000 people in the United States.
At a liberal estimate 100,000 of these have lost the use of both arms; remain then 69,900,000 who write novels. Indeed, many are called, but few — oh, what a scanty, skimped handful that few represent — are chosen.
The work of choosing these few, or rather of rejecting these many, devolves upon the manuscript readers for the baker’s dozen of important New York publishing houses, and a strange work it is, and strange are the contributions that pass under their inspection.
As one not unfamiliar with the work of “reading,” the present writer may offer a little seasonable advice.
1. First have your manuscript typewritten. The number of manuscripts is too great and the time too short to expect the reader to decipher script; and, besides, ideas presented or scenes described in type are infinitely more persuasive, more plausible than those set down in script. A good story typewritten will appear to better advantage; a poor one similarly treated seems less poverty stricken.
Do not, by any manner of means, announce in a prefatory note that you “lay no claim to literary excellence,” with the intention thereby of ingratiating yourself with regard to the “reader,” winning him over by a parade of modesty. Invariably the statement is prejudicial, producing an effect exactly contrary to the one desired. It will make the mildest of “readers” angry. If you have no claims upon literary excellence, why in Heaven’s name are you bothering him to read your work?
1. Enclose a forwarding address in case of rejection. This, seemingly, is superfluous advice. But it is astonishing how many manuscripts come in innocent even of the author’s name, with never a scrap nor clue as to their proper destination.
2. Don’t ask for criticism. The reader is not a critic. He passes only upon the availability of the manuscript for the uses of the publisher who employs him. And a manuscript of paramount literary quality may be rejected for any number of reasons, none of which have anything to do with its literary worth — or accepted for causes equally outside the domain of letters. Criticism is one thing, professional “reading” quite another.
Don’t bother about “enclosing stamps for return.” The manuscript will go back to you by c o. d express.
3. Don’t submit a part of a manuscript. It is hard enough sometimes to judge the story as a whole, and no matter how discouraging the initial chapter may be the publisher will always ask to see the remaining portions before deciding.
4. Don’t write to the publisher beforehand asking him if he will consider your manuscript. If it is a novel he will invariably express his willingness to consider it. How can he tell whether he wants it or not until he, through his “reader,” has seen it?
5. Don’t expect to get an answer much before a month. Especially if your story has merit, it must pass through many hands and be considered by many persons before judgment is rendered. The better it is the longer you will wait before getting a report.
6. Don’t, in Heaven’s name, enclose commendatory letters written by your friends, favourable reviews by your pastor or by the president of the local college. The story will speak for itself more distinctly than any of your acquaintances.
7. Don’t say you will revise or shorten to suit the tastes or judgment of the publisher.
At best that’s a servile humility that in itself is a confession of weakness and that will make you no friends at court.
8. Don’t forward a letter of introduction, no matter from how near a friend of the publisher. The publisher will only turn the MS. over to his “readers,” and with them the letter from a stranger carries no weight.
9. Don’t write a Colonial novel.
10. Don’t write a Down East novel.
11. Don’t write a “Prisoner of Zenda” novel.
12. Don’t write a novel.
13. Try to keep your friends from writing novels.
And of all the rules, one is almost tempted to declare that the last two are the most important. For to any one genuinely interested in finding “good stuff” in the ruck and run of volunteer manuscripts, nothing is more discouraging, nothing more apparently hopeless of ultimate success than the consistent and uniform trashiness of the day’s batch of submitted embryonic novels. Infinitely better for their author had they never been written; infinitely better for him had he employed his labour — at the very least it is labour of three months — upon the trade or profession to which he was bred. It is very hard work to write a good novel, but it is much harder to write a bad one. Its very infelicity is a snare to the pen, its very clumsiness a constant demand for laborious boosting and propping.
And consider another and further word of advice — number 17, if you please. Don’t go away with that popular idea that your manuscript will be considered, or if really and undeniably good will be heedlessly rejected. Bad manuscripts are not read from cover to cover. The reader has not the right to waste his employer’s time in such unremunerative diligence. Often a page or two will betray the hopelessness of the subsequent chapters, and no one will demand of the “reader” a perusal of a work that he knows will be declined in the end.
Nor was there ever a sincere and earnest effort that went unappreciated in a publisher’s place of business. I have seen an entire office turned upside down by a “reader” who believed he had discovered among the batch of voluminous MS. something “really good, you know,” and who almost forced a reading of the offering in question upon every member of the firm from the senior partner down to the assistant salesman.
As a rule, all manuscripts follow the same routine. Prom the clerk who receives them at the hands of the expressman they go to the recorder, who notes the title, address and date of arrival, and also, after turning them over to the junior reader, the fact of the transfer. The junior reader’s report upon the manuscript is turned in to one of the members of the firm, whose decision is final. The manuscript itself goes up to the senior reader, who also reports upon it to the firm member. If both reports are unfavourable, this latter directs the manuscript to be returned with or without a personal letter, as he deems proper. If both the readers’ reports are favourable, or even if one is sufficiently laudatory, he calls for the manuscript and reads it himself. If he disagrees with the readers’ reports, the manuscript is declined. If not, he passes the manuscript on to one of the partners of the house, who also reads it. The two “talk it over,” and out of the conference comes the ultimate decision in the matter.
Sometimes the circulation manager and head salesman are consulted to decide whether or not — putting all questions of the book’s literary merits aside — the “thing will sell.” And doubt not for a moment that their counsel carries weight.
Another feature of the business which it is very well to remember is that all publishers cannot be held responsible for the loss of or damage to unsolicited manuscripts. If you submit the MS: of a novel you do it at your own risk, and the carelessness of an office-boy may lose for you the work of many months — years, even; work that you could never do over again. You could demand legally no reparation. The publishers are not responsible. Only in a case where a letter signed by one of the “heads” has been sent to the author requesting that the manuscript be forwarded does the situation become complicated. But in the case of an unknown writer the monetary value of his work in a court of law would be extremely difficult to place, and even if an award of damages could be extorted it would hardly more than pay the typewriter’s bill.
But the loss of manuscript may be of serious import to the publisher for all that. That reputation for negligence in the matter of handling unsolicited matter fastens upon a firm with amazing rapidity. Bothersome as the number of volunteer manuscripts are, they do — to a certain extent — gauge the importance of a given concern. And as they arrive in constantly increasing quantities, the house may know that it is growing in favour and in reputation: and so a marked falling off reverses the situation. Writers will be naturally averse to submitting manuscripts to offices which are known to be careless. And I know of at least one instance where the loss of a couple of manuscripts within a month produced a marked effect upon the influx of the volunteers. Somehow the news of the loss always gets out, and spreads by some mysterious means till it is heard of from strangely remote quarters. The author will, of course, tell his friends of the calamity, and will make more ado over the matter than if his story was accepted. Of course, this particular story is the one great masterpiece of his career; the crass stupidity of the proud and haughty publisher has ruined his chance of success, and the warning: “Don’t send your stuff to that firm. It will be lost!” is passed on all along the line. So that repeated instances of the negligence may in the end embarrass the publisher, and the real masterpiece, the first novel of a New Man, goes to a rival.
I have in mind one case where a manuscript was lost under peculiarly distressing circumstances. The reader, who had his office in the editorial rooms of a certain important house of New York, was on a certain day called to the reception room to interview one of the host of writers who came daily to submit their offerings in person.
In this case the reader confronted a little gentleman in the transition period of genteel decay. He was a Frenchman. His mustache, tight, trim and waxed, was white. The frock coat was buttoned only at the waist; a silk handkerchief puffed from the pocket, and a dried carnation, lamentably faded, that had done duty for many days, enlivened with a feeble effort the worn silk lapel.
But the in
nate French effervescence, debonair, insouciant, was not gone yet. The little gentleman presented a card. Of course the name boasted that humblest of titles — baron. The Baron, it appeared, propitiated destiny by “Instruction in French, German and Italian,” but now instruction was no longer propitious. With a deprecating giggle this was explained; the Baron did not wish to make the “reader” feel bad — to embarrass him.
“I will probably starve very soon,” he observed, still with the modifying little giggle, and, of course, the inevitable shrug, “unless — my faith — something turns up.”
It was to be turned up, evidently, by means of an attenuated manuscript which he presented. He had written — during the intervals of instruction — a series of articles on the character of Americans as seen by a Frenchman, and these had been published by a newspaper of the town in which he instructed — an absolutely obscure town, lost and forgotten, away up among the New Hampshire hills.
The articles, he insinuated, might be made into a book — a book that might be interesting to the great American public. And, with a naivete that was absolutely staggering, he assumed without question that the firm would publish his book — that it was really an important contribution to American literature.
He would admit that he had not been paid very liberally by the country paper for the articles as they appeared. He was not Emile Zola. If he was he might have sold his articles at fifteen or twenty dollars each.
He said just that. Think of it! The poor little Instructor-Baron Zola! Fifteen dollars! Well!
He left the articles — neatly cut out and pasted in a copy-book — with the “reader,” and gave as his address a dreadfully obscure hotel.
The “reader” could not make up his mouth to tell him, even before looking over the first paragraph of the first article, that as a book the commercial value of the offering was absolutely, irrevocably and hopelessly nil, and so the little manuscript went into the mill — and in two days was lost.