CHAPTER IX

HOLDING THE READER

While most points that bear here fall more directly under other headings, some definitely belong in this chapter. And, though I know of no recipe for being interesting, there are certain things that may be of help to that effort.

_Being Dramatic_.--All stories, to be interesting, I think, must be dramatic, in the broader sense of the word, both in style and in selection and recombination of material. The very demand for unity and structure is a demand for the dramatic, the dramatic quality being largely a matter of position and contrast, and a baldly unemotional or matter-of-fact style can be strongly dramatic through its contrast with the emotional material handled. However, lest I be confounded by the philosophers, I'll discard "Being Dramatic" and attempt instead, suggestions {110} as to "being interesting," not with any idea of covering the subjects completely but rather, (as in much of this book), calling attention to points on which writers prove themselves particularly weak in actual practise and which seem to call for more attention in teaching methods.

_Suspense_.--The chief warning needed is not to spoil it after you've secured it. Over and over again a writer ruins his reader's suspense by betraying the plot in advance and making a surprise impossible. Sometimes it is inadvertent, but often it is deliberately done by at least a general statement or hint of outcome prefaced with some such phrase as "little did I know then that," "could he have known," "in the light of what followed there was no need for my next step," etc., or even more baldly betraying, say, the outcome of an entire book whose interest is at least partly based on whether hero wins heroine, by such as "Now, with Nita and our children sitting by me as I write, my doubts seem foolish ones."

To me one of the most amazing faults in the entire repertoire is the flat betrayal of plot by the chapter headings. Why do it? Is {111} it merely a slip due to concentration on the really nerve-racking task of choosing an interesting and pertinent title for the chapter? Or is the habit of not measuring by the reader's reactions so strong that in so prominent and spectacular a place a writer does not even note that he has advertised in advance to readers the very thing he should be trying to keep as a surprise?

_Surprises_.--Be sure they are legitimate. It is one thing to shape a story so that the reader will expect other than what is to happen, but quite another for you to tell him definitely that he is to expect the other. Yet some writers do this.

_Mystery_.--Naturally, play upon human curiosity and the human hunting-instinct whenever opportunity offers, but, as in the case of surprises, be sure your mystery structure and detail play fair with the reader. Here, too, you may give him false scents to follow, for he accepts them as part of the game, but, to change the figure, be sure that the ladder by which the goal is finally reached has no rungs missing. And in heaven's name don't fog your story with the needless mysteries of careless unclearness and {112} confusion when nothing but irritation is to be gained by it.

_Overstrain_.--Already covered. But some of its points demand extra attention for the sake of dramatic effect.

_Light and Shade_.--Their proper use is essential to mastery of dramatic effect. Just as a square of black on a white sheet stands out far blacker and stronger than on a black one, just so does a strong scene stand out stronger if preceded and perhaps followed by a quiet scene than if merely one in a succession of strong scenes. Such a succession, properly handled for cumulative effect and steady rise to a climax, may as a whole be stronger than an alternation of strong and quiet, but such a succession is itself a unit and as such subject to the general law. There is always the danger of overstrain in its use.

The above applies, of course, to the elements within a scene, in the make-up of a character, or in anything else. For example, the traits of a character all good or all bad are not so vivid as those of a character partly good and partly bad--nor is the character so natural.

The element of unexpectedness in the sense {113} of particularly sudden surprise is extremely effective by reason of the sharp contrast involved.

_Repression_.--Often more effective than expression of emotion, for the fundamental reason, particularly in the case of emotion felt by a character, that, however strong the emotion, repression means the addition of something sufficiently stronger to master it and of a struggle for the mastery, even though neither is definitely described in the story. There is contrast between emotion and will, between the expression to be expected and the absence of it, perhaps between one character's repression and another's lack of it. In the case of repression by the author in the general handling of a scene an advantage lies in his giving to each reader opportunity to fill out the emotion in whatever way is most satisfying and natural to each from the mere skilful stimulus furnished by the author. If this advantage seems slight, consider the drawings for an illustrated story. In how many cases does the artist's conception of characters, scene and expression coincide with that of a reader? Supposing it were possible for the artist to furnish only such {114} suggestions as would enable each reader to fill out a picture in accordance with his own conception, would not each reader find it more satisfying? Incidentally, would it be a higher form of art?

Also there is enough of the Anglo-Saxon in our national character to implant in perhaps most of us an impulse to run away from too free expression of emotion. A reader's impulse to run away from a story does not add to its effectiveness.

Certainly repression of emotion in the sense of condensing the number of words used in expression could be practised to great advantage by the majority of writers.

But, first, last and always, remember that repressing emotion should seldom mean annihilating. Perhaps the correct idea is shown by contrasting a spiral spring compressed to its least space and greatest potential force with the same spring spent from being sprung, or with the absence of a spring.

_Omitting Scenes_.--A story is at bottom a selection of certain bits of material from an almost infinite number of bits or, put the other way, the rejection of all material except the salient bits. Dramatic effect is often {115} increased by keying the process of selection and abstraction to a more rigid scale, even rejecting comparatively salient bits. For example, a whole scene, though fitting into the story's development, may lend greater effectiveness to the whole by being inferred instead of enacted on stage.

_Condensation_.--It is safe to say that many writers could make most of their stories not only more dramatic but more effective in general by greater condensation. Those of you, especially, who aim for popularity rather than the judgment of posterity should remember that we live in an age of motion-pictures, that one of their chief characteristics is speed, and that our youth are growing up with that speed more or less fixed in their minds as a standard for all narrative or expository art. What will they, consequently, demand of fiction? Are they becoming impatient of what we have considered the normal speed of fiction narrative? Just as they, and perhaps we older ones, are already inclined to impatience over Cooper, Scott and Dickens, perhaps because steam and electricity have keyed us to a faster gait. Do you not find boys who will throb over a movie of _The {116} Last of the Mohicans_ or _The Three Musketeers_, but who can not be induced to wade through these stories in book form as you and I so gladly waded? Is it merely that youth welcomes the quicker path and that these same youths will in more mature years turn to the more leisurely presentation? Even so, a slower speed may be losing them as audience while they are ripening sufficiently to prefer it.

On the other hand, do motion-pictures overfeed us with speed so that we turn with relief to the more leisurely methods of fiction?

I venture no final conclusion, but certainly the narrative art as a whole moves faster than it did twenty or even ten years ago. Here is opportunity for some college classes in fiction or psychology to contribute exceptionally valuable data through laboratory or field experiments covering at least a part of the ground.

Meanwhile there is no doubt that, by either old or new standard, most writers would profit by more condensation. There is no surer way of boring a reader than by talking too much, and even honey or strong drink can {117} be diluted until it has neither strength nor flavor. And remember, class-rooms, in judging this point from published stories, that the editor has frequently done the writer's condensing for him because of the story's need or the limitations of space.

_Short vs. Long Words and Sentences_.--Remember that in tense moments or under extreme emotion most men resort to short, simple, Anglo-Saxon words and brief sentences. Remember that therefore short words and sentences are likely to be in themselves more tense and dramatic and, though not so generally, more emotional.

Remember, too, the need of avoiding monotony from any word- or sentence-length.

_Handling, Setting, Color and Character_.--Holding the reader is essentially a matter of not being dull and there is no sovereign cure for dullness, but the following device will go a long way toward avoiding it.

Instead of giving the reader setting and local color in discouragingly large pieces, weave them into the action. An old device, to be sure, but one much too little used. Instead of describing a vast plain, let a {118} character ride over it, speak of it or think of it, thus at the same time developing scenery, character and action for the reader. If you wish to picture the plain's vegetation, incorporate some of it as even a very minor plot-factor--have the rider pluck some of it, have his horse's progress impeded by it, hide another character behind it. There are a thousand ways of thus accomplishing more than one thing at once. But remember, too, that a reader must be given his general bearings as soon as he enters a story.

_Hack Work_.--Anything in your story, except material itself, that has been used until threadbare by countless writers before you is "hack stuff" and has small chance of holding your reader, for the perfectly simply reason that he's tired of it before he reads it. Whether a matter of plot or diction and no matter how good it was in the beginning, it is a handicap that only a master can turn into an asset. Avoid, however, the opposite extreme of being different to such an extent or so clumsily that your effort is obvious. I know of no recipe for avoiding "hack stuff"--no more than for avoiding lack of individuality and other little matters of that kind, but {119} surely a writer of even moderate discernment can detect and correct this fault in some degree by taking pains to note and avoid the elements that recur most frequently in poor or mediocre fiction. Unfortunately most writers begin by copying (unconscious copying, while more ethical, is harder to correct than is deliberate copying) and your natural copier is not likely to be overly intelligent in choice of models.

_Titles and Chapter Headings_.--This subject is too large for discussion here, since it involves the psychology of both fiction and advertising, but three rules can be given: (1) Aim at the very heart of the subject-matter for your general title idea; (2) don't let them betray too much in advance, but make them "lure"; (3) select chapter heads with almost as much care as titles, for they are of great psychological importance.

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