STYLE 2

STYLE

THE STYLE

The method of presentation of the short story is a matter of import.

Its very artificiality calls for skilled workmanship; it must be made

pleasant and readable by all known devices; its brevity, too, permits

and demands a higher finish than is necessary in the novel. And

altogether the short story offers a writer who is not exactly a

genius a rare chance to show his ability as an artist in words.

Hence the question of style is of serious moment.

Style is so much a matter of individuality, and the short story

comprises so broad a range of subjects, that it is not easy to lay down

general rules concerning the proper style. No two masters would or could

treat the same plot in precisely the same way, and yet the method of

each would be correct. However, certain generalizations concerning the

style of the short story may be made without being arbitrary. As always

in literature, the style should be appropriate to the matter. This may

seem entirely gratuitous, yet the examination of the work of amateurs

will justify the remark. They are apt to treat serious subjects with the

most unbecoming levity, and to dress commonplaces in an absurdly ornate

style; and at times they so far disregard propriety that they offend

against good taste.

The style of the short story should be simple, easy and concise. Usually

the matter is not of great moment; it is incidental rather than

critical; and it offers little reason for exaggerated expressions, or

rotund periods. Above all it should be natural, for the short story,

despite its many conventionalities, is very near to nature. The extreme

sensationalism affected by many amateurs is most absurd, for nature and

things true to nature can never be really sensational--a fact which is

unconsciously recognized by the offending writer in his resort to

artificial means to make his narrative sensational. I say "extreme

sensationalism" because I believe a certain amount of what is commonly

designated sensationalism is permissible in the short story to sustain

the interest, and to produce that delightful "thrill" which accompanies

a clever scene. The best rule for the novice is to stick close to

nature--that is, to fact. He may present what startling effects he will

so that he can prove them copies of nature, and so that they do not

offend against art; but it is not permitted him to harrow the feelings

of his readers by unduly dwelling upon exciting topics. Any undue

exaggeration of this style, or any attempt to create excitement by sheer

force of italics, capitals and exclamation points, is in extremely bad

taste. It at once disgusts the intelligent reader, and it will soon so

weary even the ignorant that he will yawn drearily over the most

startling display of "scare" lines.

The necessity for a simple style must not be made an excuse for

commonplaceness; and here the author confronts rather a serious

question, for everyday life abounds in commonplaces, which literature

will not tolerate. If we make our stories readable we must, in some

degree, represent life; if we represent life we cannot wholly avoid

commonplaces; if we do not avoid commonplaces we become unliterary.

However, the difficulty is more easily solved than at first appears, and

the solution lies in the very life which we portray. Life certainly is

full of the baldest facts, but they are so subordinated to the

relatively few but important events by which our lives are checkered

that we shortly forget the commonplaces and remember only the striking

occurrences. In like manner we should so preserve the proportion of our

stories that the necessary commonplaces, while they properly perform

their parts, shall be carefully subjugated to the interesting

happenings. This is largely a matter of the handling, for in fiction

events seem great or small in accordance with the space and treatment

that they receive. The way, then, to dispose of commonplaces is to

slight them as much as possible: to crowd them into the least possible

space, and to couch them in ordinary language; for thoughts that are

rendered unusual by their expression become conspicuous.

By ordinary language I do not mean the stereotyped phrases which the

mentally lazy employ in the expression of their thoughts, but the

simple, correct and rather colorless speech which is heard among the

truly cultured. Indeed, sensationalism is preferable to the deadly

monotony of the writer who is wont to clothe his ideas in the ready-made

garments of conventional phrases; for sensationalism has at least the

merit of vividness. The writer who penned the following could hardly

have been more absurdly commonplace and stereotyped in his phraseology

if he had been ridiculing some "popular" author of cheap literature,

but he wrote in serious earnest; the story throughout is a perfect gold

mine of such hackneyed expressions. I have italicized the most

offensive, though it is hardly necessary.

_Faint rumors_ of a church scandal _permeated the very

atmosphere_ in Frankton, and Everyone was _on the alert_ to

_catch the faintest whisper_ in regard to the matter; as the

minister was a _social favorite_, and it was known by _an inside

few_ that he was the one most seriously involved.

For a long time the matter was suppressed, and then first one

hint after another leaked out that Mrs. Daniels, the minister's

wife, was _a most unhappy woman_, and that there was _another

woman in the case_.

At first the members of the congregation hooted at the idea; but

when item after item of scandal came to their notice they begun

to take a little notice, and it was noticeable that a good many

enquiries were _going the rounds, "just to satisfy themselves_

as to the ridiculous part of it", so the _curiosity seekers_

explained.

Other writers attempt to make their commonplaces literary by couching

them in stilted language, and then we have what is technically termed

"fine writing. " It is to this tendency that we owe such phrases as,

"After the customary salutations he sought the arms of Morpheus, " and

"Upon rising in the morning he partook of an abundant repast, " when the

author meant merely to say, "After saying good night he went to bed, "

and "He breakfasted. " This error is due to the mistaken idea that things

which are common are necessarily vulgar, and to an absurd squeamish

objection to "call a spade, a spade. " It is the worst possible way to

handle commonplaces, for it attracts particular attention to the very

things which it is supposed to hide.

But the writer may purposely subordinate commonplace facts, and yet

suffer from a commonplace style, if he fails to give his narrative

character. It is then that the young writer resorts to the use of

poetry, quoted and original, with which he interlards his stories and

the speeches of his characters. The poetry may be good, even if it is

original, and it may be very apt, but few people in real life quote

poetry in their ordinary speech. You may be well read in poetry and the

kindred arts, but it is hardly the part of modesty or discretion for you

to force your quotations upon a reader who very likely cares neither for

your erudition nor the poets themselves. It is bad technically, too; and

usually, as in the case of the following specimen, shows that the author

has a wider acquaintance with the poets than with the rhetoricians.

Algernon Long was not a person of unbalanced mind, nor was he

superstitious in his interpretations of signs, visions and dreams to

which so many attach supernatural importance; he was simply a successful

man of the world, full of life and buoyancy, devoted to his occupation,

that of a stock-broker, and to his domestic and social relations. And

yet he believed with Lord Byron, that

"Our life is twofold; sleep hath its own world,

And a wide realm of wild reality,

And dreams that in their development have breath,

And tears and tortures and the touch of joy;

They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,

They take a weight from off our waking toils.

They do divide our being,

They speak like sibyls of the future. "

A number of his most cherished friends had recently passed away into

that "undiscovered country, from whose bourne no traveler returns. " The

loss to him was intolerable; the experience the most painful he had ever

known. Each case seemed more cruel than its predecessor; to himself

personally most suggestive. He was now in mature manhood, and could

thoroughly appreciate the poet's lines:

"Life is real, life is earnest,

And the grave is not its goal. "

So strong is the tendency of the short story toward simplicity that even

figures of speech are to be avoided. This does not mean that we are

carefully to discard any expression which savors of the figurative:

such a thing would be absurd, for literature and everyday speech abound

in figurative language which passes current unquestioned. But figures

which are introduced simply for literary effect are unnatural, and so

are to be avoided. They are really digressions, excrescences--beautiful

enough in themselves, perhaps, but assuredly adding no beauty to the

narrative. Principal among such figures employed by amateurs are the

long complex metaphors and similes in which epic poetry delights; the

figure of apostrophe, too, is much affected by tyros, because it affords

them opportunity to coin orotund phrases concerning the irony of fate,

the haplessness of true lovers, and kindred favorite topics.

Foreign words and phrases form another sad stumbling block in the way of

a simple natural style. They have their uses, of course--and one is to

betray the novice. He fondly imagines that a sprinkling of French

phrases gives his narrative a delightful air of cosmopolitanism; and

that as an evidence of "culture" a line from Horace or Homer is equal

to a college degree. So he thumbs the back of his dictionary, culls

there from trite quotations with which to deck his writing, and never

uses an English word when he knows a similar French one. The employment

of a foreign word or phrase to express an idea which can be equally well

couched in English is the cheapest sort of a literary trick, and it is

the unmistakable badge of hopeless mediocrity and self-complacency.

Expressions from other languages may be judiciously and legitimately

used to give local color, and they are, of course, indispensable in the

speeches of certain character types; but as a rule there is no better

medium for your thoughts than good wholesome English.

You will notice that I specify the sort of English you should use, for

many who avoid foreign idioms fall into the equally bad habit of using

poor and incorrect English. I am not referring to the speeches of the

characters, whose privileges in this respect I have already discussed;

but in the necessary introductory and connective phrases you should take

exquisite pains to keep your English pure. The use of slang is of course

absolutely inexcusable, for it offends against good taste as well as

good rhetoric; but the employment of words in a careless or perverted

meaning is equally condemnable. It is also a mistake to use too many

adjectives, to throw every adjective and adverb into the superlative

degree, and in other ways to exaggerate every expression which you

use. Much of this misuse of words is due to ignorance, but more to

carelessness or laziness; in any case you can detect your faults if

you seek for them, and you should take immediate steps to correct

them, with the help of a dictionary, or a rhetoric, or both.

The style of the short story should be easy and flowing, so that it

shall be pleasant reading. Good ideas may be expressed in good language

and still be afflicted with a nervousness or stiffness of style that

will make the work difficult of perusal, and so lessen its power to

hold the reader. One of the first requisites for this desired ease is

a lightness of phrasing which is at once a matter of thought and of

rhetorical construction. Try to avoid heaviness and austerity of thought

as much as you would similar qualities in writing. Get at the lighter,

brighter, perhaps more frivolous side of things; do not take your work

too seriously, you are seldom writing tragedies; permit yourself to be

humorous, witty, a little ironical; do not plunge too deeply into dark

abysses of metaphysics or theology. I do not mean that you should not

treat of serious things, or that you should make light of serious

subjects; but there are several ways of looking at any matter, and the

atmosphere of intense and morbid gloom which Poe casts over so many of

his weird tales is not characteristic of the short story in general. At

the same time I am far from advocating flippancy or superficiality, for

both are deadly sins in literature. I merely wish to impress upon you

the absurdity of the solemn tone which some amateurs seem to think a

mark of depth of thought or feeling. An apt, simple phrase is the most

forceful means of expression known to literature.

Your bright thoughts should be expressed in words and sentences which

are in themselves light and easy. There is a good deal of difference

between words which may mean the same thing, and it is not altogether

a matter of length. Words which are heavy and lumbering, or harsh, or

suggestive of unpleasant thoughts, should be used with care, for their

thoughtless introduction will often injure the ease of a passage. Tone

color in words is of almost as much importance in prose as in verse.

Similarly the sentence structure should be carefully tested for ease.

The periodic style should be practically tabooed: it is seldom

appropriate to the matter of the short story, and it is always heavy

and retarding. The very short sentence, which is so typical of the

French, may be used only in moderation, for its excessive employment

gives a nervous jerky style which is tiresome and irritating. Among

American writers Stephen Crane is an awful example of this

"bumpety-bump" method of expression, though his later works show a

tendency to greater ease. The exclamatory and interrogative sentences,

of which amateurs use so many, under the mistaken impression that they

lend vivacity and vividness, should be totally eschewed. They offend

against almost every principle of the short story, and they have nothing

to recommend them. Usually they are irrelevant and inartistic asides by

the author. The proper sentence structure for the bulk of the short

story is the simple straightforward declarative sentence, rather loose,

of medium length, tending to short at times to avoid monotony and give

vividness.

Exclamation points must be used sparingly: a row of three or four of

them at the end of a sentence is a sign of amateurism. The mere presence

of a point of punctuation will not make a thrilling sentence or produce

a climax. Punctuation marks are designed to draw attention to what

already exists, and they have no inherent power to create interest. Very

few sentences really need or merit a mark of exclamation; and if they

are properly constructed the reader will feel the exclamatory force,

whether the point is expressed or not. Italics, as a method of emphasis,

are seldom necessary in a well-written story. They, too, are signs of

what has already been expressed, and not the expression of a new force.

A word or a phrase which needs sufficient emphasis to excuse italics

should be so placed that the reader will involuntarily give it the

proper stress; and an expression thus brought into notice far exceeds in

importance one which owes its prominence to a mere change in type. Words

in still more staring type--small capitals or capitals--are entirely out

of place.

Finally, the style of the short story should be concise. "One of the

difficulties of the short story, the short story shares with the actual

drama, and that is the indispensableness of compression--the need that

every sentence shall tell. "[44] It is not sufficient that all irrelevant

ideas be carefully pruned away; all unnecessary fullness of expression

must likewise be cut, that the phrasing of the story may always be crisp

and to the point. This is sometimes a matter of the expunging of a

superfluous word or phrase; but it is fully as often a recasting of a

sentence so as to avoid redundancy. The object of this conciseness is

twofold: to waste as little as possible of the valuable and abridged

space of the short story, and to make the movement of the language as

quick as the action of the plot.

The fault to be avoided here is commonly called "padding. " Briefly

speaking the term padding, as applied to a piece of literature, denotes

the presence of irrelevant matter. It may consist of the introduction of

scenes, persons, episodes, conversations or general observations which

have no part in advancing the action; or, more dangerous still, it may

consist of the presence of occasional words and phrases which lengthen

and perhaps round out the sentences without adding to their value.

Irrelevant scenes, persons, episodes, conversations and general

observations have already been discussed at length, and need no further

treatment here. But I must warn the novice against that most insidious

form of padding which is responsible for so many long and dreary

sentences, cluttered with repetitious words and phrases which retard the

narrative and exasperate the reader. This redundancy is a rhetorical

fault, which is best corrected by a return to the old school day methods

of testing a sentence for coherence. It must be corrected, and that

vigorously and radically, for it is fatal to a good short story style.

An instance of how much stress editors lay upon procuring only the

"concentrated extract of the story-teller's art" may be found in a

letter received by a young writer from the editor of a prominent

publication: "We will pay $100 for your story as it is. If you can

reduce it a third, we will pay you $150; if a half, $200. "

Concise must not be understood to mean exhaustive, for it is bad policy

to leave nothing to the imagination of the reader. The average person is

fond of reading between the lines, and usually prides himself upon his

ability in this respect; accordingly he is easily exasperated with the

exhaustive style which leaves no chance for the exercise of his subtle

power, while he takes huge delight in expanding the sly hints which the

knowing writer throws out for his benefit. Such a reader never stops to

consider that he has fallen into a skillfully laid trap; he compliments

the author upon his artistic method and turns from the story well

pleased with himself and with the writer. There is, however, something

more than a pampering of pride in the charm of this suggestive method:

it enables the writer to cast a light veil of uncertainty over rather

bald facts, and thus to maintain that romantic glamour of unreality

which plays so important a part in fiction.

A good style can be acquired by the exercise of knowledge, patience and

labor. The first requisite is a practical working knowledge of rhetoric

and English composition. It seems absurd to suppose that anyone would

attempt to write stories without being able to write correct English,

but at least two-thirds of the stories submitted to editors contain

inexcusable grammatical and rhetorical errors; and many of the faults

which I have found it necessary to discuss in the first part of this

chapter are matters of rhetoric. If you cannot write correct English

now, set about perfecting yourself in that respect before you dare to

essay story telling. There are books and correspondence courses galore

which will assist you. If you won't do that you had better turn your

energies in some other direction, for you have neither the courage nor

the spirit necessary for a successful short story writer.

Your next duty is to cultivate your individuality. "Style is the

personal impress which a writer inevitably sets upon his production. It

is that character in what is written which results from the fact that

these thoughts and emotions have been those of the author rather than of

any other human being. It is the expression of one man's individuality,

as sure and as unique as the sound of his voice, the look from his eye,

or the imprint of his thumb. "[45] Every person who has any call to write

has a strong personality--an original manner of looking at life and of

treating its problems. He wishes so to influence the world by this

personality that it will consent to see through his eyes, or will at

least listen patiently to what he sees. It is this ego, this that is the

man himself, that he really desires to show through his writings. His

first step, then, is to cultivate this individuality, to train his

originality, so to speak, in order that he may see everything in a new

and distinctive light. He should also give attention to the expression

of his personality. It is not sufficient that he shall see life at a

new angle, but he must so train himself that he shall be able to put in

an original way the new phases which his individuality has discovered.

It is this expression of the individuality which causes so much trouble,

for hundreds of stories are written which show originality in

conception, but which fall into conventionality in the execution. The

best way to express your personality is to be perfectly natural, and say

exactly what you think; any labored striving after effects will produce

an artificial style which will be fatal to success.

It is a great aid to the attainment of a good style thoroughly to

understand your own mind before you put pen to paper. It may seem odd

that you should be ignorant of your own ideas on a subject, but often

difficulty of expression is due to indecision of mind. Vagueness or

confusion of ideas in a writer's mind is always the precursor of a poor

style. Too often, struck by a happy thought, he attempts to put it on

paper before it has yet sufficient definiteness of form to justify

expression, and when he would project it into writing he loses the

thought in a mass of the very words in which he seeks to voice it.

Again, the writer's mind may contain several jumbled ideas, each one

good in itself but totally independent of the others; and if he attempts

to express any particular one before it has had time to disentangle

itself, it is bound to bring with it portions of other and distinct

ideas. Clear thinking is the basis of clear writing; and clear writing

prevents the chief errors that threaten your style.

Study the stories of great writers; you know what parts most trouble

you--compare your work with that of others and see how they have

obtained the effect that you desire to produce. It is not wise to limit

your study to anyone writer. Your style should possess a certain

flexibility, to enable it to adapt itself readily to your varying

themes, and you should master the methods of all good writers; if you

have sufficient individuality to have any excuse for writing you need

have little fear of imitating them too closely. For style alone it is

better to confine yourself to the more modern writers. There is always a

change in style, if not exactly a progression, from one literary

generation to the next, and you should aim at conformity to the canons

of your own age. Those early masters of the short story, Irving,

Hawthorne and Poe, had a tendency toward a diffuse, almost discursive

style, which is not much in vogue now. Their ease and elegance are most

commendable, but they lost somewhat more in force and conciseness than

is thought correct to-day.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 44: "The Short Story, " by Frederick Wedmore. _Nineteenth

Century. _ Mar., '98. ]

[Footnote 45: "Talks on Writing English, " by Arlo Bates. Chapter on

"Style. "]

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