HOW TO STUDY
“THE BEST SHORT STORIES”

How to Study
“The Best Short Stories”

AN ANALYSIS OF EDWARD J.O’BRIEN’S ANNUAL VOLUMES OF THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF THE YEAR PREPARED FOR THE USE OF WRITERS AND OTHER STUDENTS OF THE SHORT-STORY

BY

BLANCHE COLTON WILLIAMS

Associate Professor of English, Hunter College of the City
of New York; Instructor in Short-Story Writing,
Columbia University (Extension Teaching and
Summer Session). Author of “Gnomic
Poetry in Anglo-Saxon,” “A Handbook
on Story Writing,” etc.;
Editor of “A Book of
Short Stories.”

BOSTON

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

In this foreword, I wish first of all to thank Captain Achmed Abdullah, Gertrude Atherton, Edwina Stanton Babcock, Barry Benefield, Thomas Beer, Katharine Holland Brown, Maxwell Struthers Burt, Francis Buzzell, Donn Byrne of Oriel, Charles Caldwell Dobie, Theodore Dreiser, George Gilbert, Susan Glaspell, Armistead C.Gordon, Fannie Hurst, Arthur Johnson, Fanny Kemble Johnson, Burton Kline, Mary Lerner, Sinclair Lewis, Jeannette Marks, Walter J.Muilenburg, Seumas O’Brien, Vincent O’Sullivan, Albert DuVerney Pentz, Lawrence Perry, Mary Brecht Pulver, Harrison Rhodes, Benjamin Rosenblatt, Fleta Campbell Springer, and Julian Street.Each of these authors very kindly gave data which no one could have gleaned; and in so doing they have contributed largely to the usefulness of this study.[1]

Only the other day a student demanded, “Why can’t I get an author to tell me every step in the development of one of his stories?”Although, as I tried to point out, such a thorough proceeding is neither desirable nor easily possible,[2] yet the essentially valuable part of the author’s progress may be most illuminative, and it is obtainable. As one of these writers has said, the artist is not analytical beforehand and is not so, of necessity, after completing his work. But even from those who progress only, as they assert, by inspiration come clear and helpful statements concerning their starting points and developing processes. This generosity of successful writers augurs well for the future of fiction.

Charles Caldwell Dobie has said:[3] “Any man who has made a success of his business or profession always seems to consider it his duty to warn others off the field. The advice of both failure and success appears to be embodied in one and the same word, ‘Don’t!’ This is a curious paradox, and I shall not attempt to explain it. Perhaps it is because the roads to success or to failure are hard to distinguish, the sign-posts at the parting of the ways almost undecipherable. Yes, I think it must be this realization of the nearness of defeat that makes the successful one so anxious to dissuade others from the struggle. And yet, after all, there is a bit of egotism back of the kindly advice we offer, rather patronizingly, to our friends.

“I would be the last person to warn the ambitious from literary endeavor, providing they would rather write than do anything else in the world; providing, also, they were equipped with three qualifications. Determination is the first; a hide at once sensitive and impervious ranks second; an hour—at least—a day to devote to the pursuit of their purpose. I say devote advisedly; the true lover is never niggardly.... If added to these virtues, one has a quiet room and no telephone, half the battle is won.”[4]

And, further, by way of emphasis on work and study, hear Burton Kline: “As an editor I have a feeling that some of the writers who should be railroad presidents or bank directors are getting in the way of real writers that I ought to be discovering.In the long run it is probably better to have all the writing we can get.The wider the net is spread, the greater the chance of something precious in the haul.The teaching of writing, even if it finds only a few real writers, helps to sharpen the critical taste of the others and whet their appetite for better writing. And I believe that sharper appetite and more discriminating taste is beginning to be felt.... In the creation of a literature, an audience is as necessary as the performers themselves. And the more critical the audience, the more likely we are to have great performers. The opportunity invites and develops them....”

Speaking from the critic’s and teacher’s point of view, I not only believe that one can “learn to write”; I know, because more than once I have watched growth and tended effort from failure to success. Many would-be writers drop by the way; the telephone to pleasure is too insistent, or the creative process is not sufficiently joyful. Some students, however, need only an encouraging word and sympathetic criticism. Harriet Welles is an example of this sort. Her stories have been running in Scribner’s for some months; she worked only a year in my class at Columbia before producing finished narratives. Others must labor and exercise patience in order to accomplish a few—perhaps one or two—worthy specimens of the story-teller’s art. I refer, for illustration, to another student, Elizabeth Stead Taber, whose “Scar” attracted favorable comment and drew from Mr. O’Brien high praise in his volume of 1917. Others write prolifically, turning out story after story, before attaining the highest publications and prices—but not of necessity before attaining excellent construction and style. Marjorie Lewis Prentiss comes to mind as an earnest and careful writer of this sort, who is improving as steadily as she writes and publishes regularly. I need not refer to Frederick S. Greene—now in France—who has become well known through his stories, and who felt that he worked best under class criticism. He studied as he wrote, and his published stories, with only two exceptions as I recall, were produced, first, for the class-room audience. Even those who succeed only once, or who never succeed, have learned to evaluate the content and the manner of the printed narrative, and have added to the body of the intelligent fiction-public.

The great artist, let me add, hews his own way.But—!Gutzon Borglum once said that in his opinion there had lived only three great masters of art: Phidias, Michel Angelo, and Auguste Rodin.If these are the great names in sculpture and pictorial art, who are those in the world of fiction writing?

... I use the form “short-story” to indicate the particular genre or type, to distinguish it from the story that is merely short. I have laid down my definition in “A Handbook on Story Writing,”[5] a volume which the student of this book should have at hand. In the space here allowed, there can be no discussion of terminology. Mr. O’Brien has expressed himself as uninterested in technical distinctions, a fact which argues for the greater range of his choice. He has preferred the larger values, and therefore no adverse comment is implied in my classing a story in these collections as a novelette or another as a story that is merely short.[6] From the standpoint of literature, an advantage lies in the more extended field. And at best, opinions differ. I can only set down my own reactions, backed by eight years of teaching and a life-time interest in fiction.

To the student, I would emphasize the fact that studying these “Yearbook” stories, valuable as such study may become, will not make of you a writer; but from them, this little book, and the wealth of detail which Mr. O’Brien has accumulated, you can apprehend the elements of technique and learn, at the same time, what is successful from an editorial point of view. For every short-story writer must be both an artist and a man of business. If his work is not published, it is not. Much of it, early in the exercising stages, should die. But at the last there must be evidence of labor and of genius. Only one evidence is admissible: the product.

While you are learning, then, do not try to publish.“Do” your exercises, and practise much; master the principles, and express yourself.When you have become full-grown, put away childish things, and forget that you ever heard of technique.

Blanche Colton Williams.

New York City,
November 30, 1918.

STORIES IN THE YEARBOOKS

1915, 1916, 1917, and 1918.

		PAGE
A Simple Act of Piety. By Captain Achmed Abdullah	1918	1
The Sacrificial Altar. By Gertrude Atherton	1916	8
The Excursion. By Edwina Stanton Babcock	1917	12
Cruelties. By Edwina Stanton Babcock	1918	14
Onnie. By Thomas Beer	1917	18
Miss Willett. By Barry Benefield	1916	21
Supers. By Frederick Booth	1916	23
Buster. By Katharine Holland Brown	1918	24
Fog. By Dana Burnet	1916	28
The Water-Hole. By Maxwell Struthers Burt	1915	31
A Cup of Tea. By Maxwell Struthers Burt	1917	33
Ma’s Pretties. By Francis Buzzell	1916	37
Lonely Places. By Francis Buzzell	1917	39
The Wake. By Donn Byrne	1915	42
The Great Auk. By Irvin Cobb	1916	44
Boys Will Be Boys. By Irvin Cobb	1917	48
Chautonville. By Will Levington Comfort	1915	51
Laughter. By Charles Caldwell Dobie	1917	52
The Open Window. By Charles Caldwell Dobie	1918	56
The Lost Phoebe. By Theodore Dreiser	1916	59
La Dernière Mobilisation. By W. A. Dwiggins	1915	61
The Emperor of Elam. By H. G. Dwight	1917	62
The Citizen. By James Francis Dwyer	1915	66
The Gay Old Dog. By Edna Ferber	1917	67
Blind Vision. By Mary Mitchell Freedley	1918	71
Imagination. By Gordon Hall Gerould	1918	73
The Knight’s Move. By Katherine Fullerton Gerould	1917	75
In Maulmain Fever-Ward. By George Gilbert	1918	77
A Jury of Her Peers. By Susan Glaspell	1917	83
The Silent Infare. By Armistead C. Gordon	1916	86
The Cat of the Cane-Brake. By Frederick Stuart Greene	1916	89
The Bunker Mouse. By Frederick Stuart Greene	1917	92
Whose Dog—? By Frances Gregg	1915	95
Making Port. By Richard Matthews Hallett	1916	96
Rainbow Pete. By Richard Matthews Hallett	1917	98
Life. By Ben Hecht	1915	100
The Father’s Hand. By George Humphrey	1918	101
T.B. By Fannie Hurst	1915	103
“Ice Water, Pl—!” By Fannie Hurst	1916	106
Get Ready the Wreaths. By Fannie Hurst	1917	109
Mr. Eberdeen’s House. By Arthur Johnson	1915	112
The Visit of the Master. By Arthur Johnson	1918	116
The Strange-Looking Man. By Fannie Kemble Johnson	1917	118
Vengeance Is Mine. By Virgil Jordan	1915	119
The Caller in the Night. By Burton Kline	1917	120
In the Open Code. By Burton Kline	1918	124
Little Selves. By Mary Lerner	1916	126
The Willow Walk. By Sinclair Lewis	1918	129
The Weaver Who Clad the Summer. By Harris Merton Lyon	1915	136
The Sun Chaser. By Jeannette Marks	1916	139
The Story Vinton Heard at Mallorie. By Katharine Prescott Moseley	1918	143
Heart of Youth. By Walter J. Muilenburg	1915	145
At the End of the Road. By Walter J. Muilenburg	1916	147
At the End of the Path. By Newbold Noyes	1915	149
The Whale and the Grasshopper. By Seumas O’Brien	1915	151
In Berlin. By Mary Boyle O’Reilly	1915	153
The Interval. By Vincent O’Sullivan	1917	154
The Toast to Forty-Five. By William Dudley Pelley	1918	156
The Big Stranger on Dorchester Heights. By Albert Du Verney Pentz	1916	159
“A Certain Rich Man—.” By Lawrence Perry	1917	161
The Path of Glory. By Mary Brecht Pulver	1917	165
Extra Men. By Harrison Rhodes	1918	170
The Waiting Years. By Katharine Metcalf Roof	1915	172
Zelig. By Benjamin Rosenblatt	1915	174
The Menorah. By Benjamin Rosenblatt	1916	176
The Survivors. By Elsie Singmaster	1915	178
Penance. By Elsie Singmaster	1916	180
Feet of Gold. By Arthur Gordon Smith	1916	182
Solitaire. By Fleta Campbell Springer	1918	184
The Yellow Cat. By Wilbur Daniel Steele	1915	189
Down on Their Knees. By Wilbur Daniel Steele	1917	192
Ching, Ching, Chinaman. By Wilbur Daniel Steele	1917	194
The Dark Hour. By Wilbur Daniel Steele	1918	200
The Bird of Serbia. By Julian Street	1918	202
The Bounty Jumper. By Mary Synon	1915	207
None So Blind. By Mary Synon	1917	210
Half-Past Ten. By Alice L. Tildesley	1916	212
At Isham’s. By Edward C. Venable	1918	214
De Vilmarte’s Luck. By Mary Heaton Vorse	1918	216
The White Battalion. By Frances Gilchrist Wood	1918	219