Jack London
The Writer/December, 1900
The chance of the unknown writer” may be discussed ad nauseam, but the unpleasant fact will yet remain that he has not the chance of the known writer. It is a matter that he has knowledge that he cannot compete with the latter on the equal ground of comparative merit. Every first-class magazine is overwhelmed with material (good material), of which it cannot use a tithe; and it will reject an unknown’s work, which may possess a value of say, two, and for which it would have paid a price of, say, one, and in place of it accept a known’s work with a value of one, for which it will pay a price of ten.
This is not an assumption, but an assertion grounded on the bitter facts of policy and expediency. There are no Utopian magazines on the market; nor are there any which are run primarily for the benefit of the writer class. In the last analysis, commercialism is the basis upon which they are all conducted. Occasionally an editor of pre-eminent position may allow his heart to transgress his business principles in order to give a struggling unknown a lift. But such an act is a transgression, and is permitted only because of the pre-eminence which its perpetrator enjoys. Let him do it always and his magazine will go bankrupt, he will be looking for a new sanctum, and, worst of all (for the writer class), he will have been deprived of his power of occasionally extending the helping hand. In short, the magazine editor must consult first and always the advertisers and the reading public; he must obey the mandates of the business department, and be deaf, very often, to the promptings of his heart. Trade is trade. But this is just.
Every known writer was once an unknown, struggling in the crowded lists for a chance of recognition, toiling early and late and always to lift his small voice above the clamor and obtain a hearing. And at last, by no primrose path of dalliance, having gained a name, it is no more than right that he should enjoy the perquisites of office, namely: the entree of the first-class periodicals and publishing houses, and the privilege of continuing to supply his own reading public which he has built up by his own exertions. He has drummed up his trade; let him retain it. If other competitors (the unknowns) attempt to crowd him out, let them expect to encounter the same obstacles which he has overcome. No editor smoothed them away for him; it were unjust to him should the editors make it easier for his new-born rivals. If he be not secured in the position he has attained, what was the use of his striving? and further, what incentive would there be for the unknown? If nothing goes with a name, why strive? Let them leave his trade alone and drum up more for themselves.
A name is a very excellent thing for a writer to possess; and the achievement of a name is an ambition which dominates every normal unknown who ever entered the field. The word “normal” is used understandingly. Whether a materialist or an idealist, no normal writer is insensible to the benefits which accrue from such a possession. To the one it will give greater scope and opportunity for the gathering in of shekels; to the other, a larger hearing and a more authoritative rostrum.
The creature is abnormal who claims neither to desire the felicities of existence which gold will purchase, nor to whisper or thunder helpful messages to the weary world. He is an egotist. He would sing his songs in his own ear, dance naked for his own pleasure. There is no place for him in the world, nor shall he retain that to which he was born. Natural selection will settle his account for him, even in the third or the fourth generation. Yet again, this abnormal, inconsistent, and most preposterous personage loads the mails with his wares and seeks publication with ravenous avidity. This is illogical, but tax him with it and he has the audacity to defend himself. He is a sophist and a degenerate, and if he persist in his iniquity, he will perish without posterity, or, at best, with a weak and sickly line.
But let us deal with the normal writer, the new-born, the unknown. How may he obtain a name? There be divers ways, but simmered down and summed up, there will be found but two: By writing a successful or popular book, or by excellent magazine work. Let the weak and wavering attempt it not. But the lion-hearted, let them advance; let them blow, as only such breed can blow: “Childe Harold to the dark tower came!” Much may be said in favor of attempting the successful book; much may be said against the undertaking. First, however, one must have within him the potentialities of the successful book. Having established this premise of quality, or believe that he has, let him proceed.
As regards quantity, he need not work hard. Though many books are shorter and a few longer, the covers of the modern book of fiction shelter from fifty thousand to eighty thousand words-call it sixty thousand for a fair average. Let him do a thousand words a day; but, they must be good words, the very best he has in him. If he writes more, the chances are large that they will deteriorate to second-best and to third-best. A thousand a day is splendid speed—so long as the writer is satisfied with each thousand as he rolls it out. In ninety days he will have worked sixty and lazied thirty, and there will stand his volume complete. If it is successful, how easy! how dazzling! His name is become an open sesame; in a moment he is lifted from the stifling herd.
But ah! that dazzle! It leads the many to essay sixty thousand words before they are prepared. They may possess potentiality, but somehow they fail to realize upon it. They would write a classic or the great American novel when they should yet be digging in the rusty pages of their rhetoric, cultivating the art of selection, or polishing up the sister art of expression. Success is just this—retaining the substance and transmuting the potential into the kinetic. That’s all. When the trick is discovered the name is assured. However, our tyro, who possesses potentiality and a lion’s heart, has failed to transmute. Let him declare a truce for thirty days, taking this time to recuperate, to study, to incubate, to plan, to meditate upon his own weaknesses, and to measure himself against those who bear the hallmark of the world’s approval. Then at it again, sixty days of work and thirty of loafing (these latter interspersed with the former as his moods dictate), and there is the second volume ready for the test.
A failure? Good. He is lion-hearted; he possesses potentiality; he needs only the Midas touch of transmutation. Another truce of thirty days; another creative effort of ninety days; a third volume; and he may then rest a month, and after all is said and done, have consumed only a year of his life. That’s not hard work. A bricklayer will have worked longer and severer hours, while he—why, during this time he has soared thrice for a seat with the immortals. And what if defeat be his portion! Let him work two years, three years—why, he would work five to learn many a manual trade, and in five years he may make fifteen flights for a name and immortality. A name means position, freedom, life! While for immortality, who can measure it?
Excellent magazine work, as a means to the high end, is slower, more discouraging, perhaps, in certain ways, and harder. But it is a training school, and it is surer. Every effort is a written exercise for the editor/teacher. Each acceptance is a reward of merit, to be added one unto another till the sum total is equivalent to the graduation certificate. This certificate is the name which enables one to command the ear and the purse of both the publisher and the public. But the way is beset with pitfalls, and to make the journey more hazardous, they cannot always be avoided. While genius soars it starves. To satisfy the belly-need, the aspirant must often turn his pen to other than excellent work. If his should be steady and his brain clear, this need not harm. Let him clothe his ambition in a hair shirt, and all will go well with him. But if, while still turned to other work, he finds that his ambition no longer hurts him, let him arise in the night and flee away from destruction. Let him also invest in a new hair shirt, more bristly, more peace-destroying. The habitual inebriate is no pleasant sight; but the confirmed hack-writer is a most melancholy spectacle—a gibbering spectre of a once robust manhood; while lucrative mediocrity typifies in these latter days those ancient, muck-wallowing swine who were once brave men in Ulysses’ band.
Knowing good from evil, we must presuppose that our young lionheart can safely thread these various dangers. Excellent work is all that stands between him and the name, but oh, how excellent it must be! The farm or home papers, the second- and third-class magazines, and all sorts and conditions of erratic periodicals, will receive his second- and third-rate work; but it is to the first-class magazines that his ambition must appeal for a hearing; and this he finds an almost hopeless task, which would appall any but his own stout heart.
Such publications are rich. They can afford the best—from a business point of view—and the chiefs of the business departments demand that they buy the best. The “star” system of the American stage is equally in vogue with the American editors. Here are knights, true and tried, who have long since received the world’s accolade. With them the unknown must compete, but on most unequal ground. What if he does as well? The business department will say him nay. A certain intrinsic value attaches to a name. To his work what name may they append? Pshaw! Nonsense! Why, there’s a host of nameless who can do as good as the named are doing. That is not what is wanted. They want better, better work than even the named are turning out.
Most unfair! Most impossible! Ah, but that’s the very point. Our unknown must do the impossible; by that means only may he become known. The impossible? Precisely. No man ever became great who did not achieve the impossible. It is the secret of greatness. It is what the unknown must do, and what he will do. Mark that well—what he will do. Else he is one of the weak and wavering, masquerading under the guise of a lionheart, and we have pinned our faith to a shadow. But not only must he do the impossible, he must continue to do it. Having chosen to carve a name in this manner, instead of by the sudden flight of a successful book, he must abide by the issue.
His first impossible performance is almost sure to fall flat. Most likely little notice will be taken of it. The critics, moving along their well-greased grooves, will hardly notice him. Many people are capable of doing the impossible only once. The critics know this. They will keep silent; but bear this in mind, they will remember him. Let him continue to do the impossible, and they will gather faith in him—likewise those arbiters of success, the editors. They are always on the lookout for budding genius. Too often they have been fooled. They will not be hasty, but they will keep an eye upon him, and suddenly, one day, like a bolt out of a clear sky, they will swoop down upon him and carry him away to Olympus. Then will he possess a name, prestige, be a Somebody. The pinnacle upon which he sits will have been built, brick by brick, slowly, tediously, and through great travail; but the foundation will be deep and sure, the masonry honest. He may precipitate himself from his perch, but it will never crumble beneath him. The perch will remain, though he be forgotten.
And so, in these two ways, lie the paths to success: Either by the writing of a successful or popular book, or by excellent magazine work. One is more brilliant; the other sounder. Some are better fitted for the one; some for the other. A favored few are capable of either. But none may be permitted so to classify himself until he has tried. Ay, until he has tried, and tried, and tried many times. Brows are not laureled for the asking, nor is the earth a heritage to any save to the sons of toil.
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