CHAPTER ELEVEN

Joe Lincoln always had a word of encouragement for embryo writers, who were “starting out” in the battle of life. Lincoln himself was an author who went through the mill. No daring expose or risque tour de force gave him his start on the road to literary fame. He was first, last and always a good workman. The technique of his craft he learned through a long and hard apprenticeship, during which he accomplished the feat indicative of an iron morale--that of working on a novel in his spare time while working for his daily bread.

“One hears many theories advanced by young writers who are trying to break in,” Mr. Lincoln once told a reporter in 1926. “But perhaps the most illogical one, and the one most disastrous to success, is that idea that ‘it takes pull’ to get started. It is easy to see why the idea should receive circulation. Young writers who lack a knowledge of technique cannot understand why their stories should be refused while others, which seem to be no better, are published with great success. Men who are discouraged naturally like to find a reason for their failures which is beyond their control.

“There is every reason why every editor of every magazine should be simply burning up to find new writers of promise. This is the day of keen competition between publishers of magazines and books and none of them want to let a good thing slip through their fingers and go to somebody else. Furthermore, there is financial incentive. It is not necessary to pay a new man as much as an author of established reputation. Then there is the perfectly human instinct of the collector--the desire to make a discovery. A publisher likes to look back and recall that he discovered an author who later rises to eminence. With all these things in his favor, the young writer who is a hard, painstaking worker, and has something to say, should have no trouble in finding a market in the natural course of events.”

Mr. Lincoln paused and indicated with his cigar a newly completed formal garden on which the doors of the sun parlor opened. “You always have to work hard and build well, always with the final effect in mind--and then sometimes you have to wait. Thoughts like flowers have to grow.

“There are all sorts of examples of books by unknown authors receiving successful publication. Perhaps one of the most successful cases was that of David Harum, by a man who knew Ripley Hitchcock and accepted it for publication by the D. Appleton Company. That manuscript had been sent around and rejected by all the publishers in town. It was not in the form in which it was finally published. There was more about the love affair of the young couple in the book, which at times threatened to dwarf the character of David. Hitchcock saw the possibilities of the character and under his direction the whole book was changed. Chapter after chapter about the young people was taken out entirely--I guess 20,000 words or so were cut, and the story of David’s horse trade, which was sunk in the middle of the book, was put at the start. That book sold over a million copies, but ‘pull’ didn’t sell one of them.”

Lincoln went on to point out that the revamping of “David Harum” was an illustration of the value of publisher’s suggestions. When Lincoln himself started out to write a book, he first took his idea to his publisher and talked it over, according to the story which the reporter wrote in the Boston Herald on June 27, 1926. Together Lincoln and his publisher talked it all over. Together they discussed the central characters. These people in his books Lincoln knew well. They were not as some people inferred, absolutely real, real people in the flesh. They were real, however, in Lincoln’s mind.

It would have been interesting to sit in on one of these discussions with his publisher. Doubtless they were of further value in “setting” the character in the author’s mind, for after talking of him with another person the character’s personality became more complete.

Once Lincoln had decided on his characters and plot, the author explained, he went over the book with the publisher, chapter by chapter, blocking out the prejudiced novel from title page to the end. Then the contract for publication was signed. Next Lincoln returned home to Chatham and started writing, or if it was in the winter, he did his writing at his other home in Hackensack, New Jersey, where he was then living. Lincoln, who did his writing in the morning, locked himself in his room after an early breakfast, according to the interviewer and worked revising as he wrote. Like Booth Tarkington, Lincoln had no use for a typewriter for creative writing. At about one o’clock he was through for the day.

“There is nothing complex about getting somewhere in the writing game if the beginner really has the stuff,” Lincoln said. “The beginner should simply write the best story he can in the best way he can, and then send it to a magazine he would like to see it printed in. Then if he gets it back, let him send it to the next magazine of his choice. That’s all I can tell anyone. Of course there are many people who think it takes pull to get a manuscript read. There are stories among the readers in every publishing house of various methods adopted by authors to determine in its return whether or not the manuscript has been read. Writers will put hairs and little slips of paper between the pages or turn down corners of the pages. Usually the readers replace these devices. If the manuscript is unsuitable, and is returned, the publishers often get angry letters from the author, in which they write triumphantly, ‘just as I thought--you don’t even read the manuscripts that come in from unknown people. I turned down page twenty-five of my story, and it came back that way. It just goes to show that nothing but drag counts with you.’

“It is often unnecessary for a reader to go farther than the first page to discover that the story is worthless. If it starts in an impossible manner with poor grammar and spelling, it is usually evident with a few glances that it cannot be used.

“All manuscripts are given a fair trial by reputable magazines. There is a sort of glorified sifter to separate the wheat from the chaff--a graduated system of readers. We will say that a magazine receives a thousand short stories a week. These are attacked by the first group of readers--what you might call the first loosely-meshed sieve, who are supposed to take out the worst of the bunch. Out of this thousand there are perhaps a hundred stories by well known authors. These are sent ahead immediately to the higher group of readers, because it is assumed that whatever these men write can at least be considered. Then the manuscripts sent in by well known literary agents are sent along to the higher group. These agents are used by many of the best known writers, and often have reputations for handling only high grade work. They seldom handle the work of a newcomer without an established name, unless they have great confidence in his ability. They save the author all the trouble of sending his stories around to the magazines. They send them out, get them back if they are rejected, and send them out again and again, each time using a fresh cover, and retyping the first and last pages if they become worn in transit.

“The remaining stories are gone through by the first group of readers, and the ones which are obviously impossible are sent back with a rejection slip. Some which seem promising but cannot be used in the form submitted are accompanied by a letter with a suggestion or two about the man’s future work. Those which seem possible are sent on to the second group of readers, and they go through another weeding process. Naturally a great many stories go back, for the magazine may not be able to use more than five out of the thousand submitted.

“Finally the small group of stories which have survived are placed on the desk of the editor, or his assistant. Final selections are made. Men who publish magazines must get a living and naturally the needs of the magazine are considered and not the needs of the author. The same story which could not possibly be used in November might be just the thing needed in August.”

In Lincoln’s early days at the writing game, there was an interesting incident which illustrates his trying to break in. He had been trying for a long time to place his stories with a magazine of national scope, but story after story was returned.

“I nearly made it,” he recalled, “but not quite. Soon after my first book came out I happened to meet the editor on the street. He had seen my book. ‘Why don’t you ever send us any of your stories?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure you write the type of story I want for my magazine. Why in the world haven’t you sent us some?’ After I got back my breath I gave him a story I had in my pocket. He was going to Boston and said he would read it on the train. Later he accepted the story.

“You see,” said Lincoln, “if he had seen my story at all he had seen it in a bunch of others and when he saw my book it looked much more important to him. A typewritten manuscript in a pile doesn’t look nearly as attractive as a book you pick up in a leisure moment to read.”