Every Writer http://www.everywritersresource.com Fri, 23 Jun 2017 22:07:30 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=4.8 1000 Writing Prompts http://www.everywritersresource.com/1000-writing-prompts/ http://www.everywritersresource.com/1000-writing-prompts/#comments Fri, 23 Jun 2017 07:04:53 +0000 http://www.everywritersresource.com/writingsense/?p=3598 So I am writing this post of 1000 writing prompts. It might be a little misleading because I have no where near 1000 prompts.

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1000 Writing Prompts

Please! Help! So I am writing this post of 1000 writing prompts. It might be a little misleading because I have no where near 1000 prompts. What I am doing is asking you to help, please. I will add to this post every day or so, and I would really like it if you added prompts too. If you enter a prompt in the writing section I will add it to the list. We will work together to get to 1000. Some of these will be better than others, of course, and they can be of all shapes and sizes. If it takes you a paragraph or so to explain the prompt, that’s fine! I will still add. If you want to add pictures just make sure that you have the copyrights to use the picture. I won’t just use anything that you find on the web. Also, please keep the prompts original. Please don’t take them from other sites. If it is prompt you heard long ago and loved, that’s fine, just don’t go cutting and pasting.

I thought it would be a really great idea to come up with 1000 writing prompts, but once I started writing prompts I realized I wasn’t going to be able to do this on my own. So please help! Add a prompt. I will check the comments every day, and I will keep adding to the list. I was hoping this would be fun. We’ll see how it goes.

I’m starting with 14, so this might take some time….

1000 Writing Prompts!

1. A man is locked in a room with a orangutan.  He is not a trainer

2.  After the gun fell out of his pocket…

3. Write a story about this picture:

Writing prompt picture writing program

University Writing Program Building where the Benches are all empty, for now!

4. The man sneezed in the crowded subway car…

5. Diving over the edge of the cliff meant he had to aim for the small well below. It was his only hope of surviving the fall

6. He held on tight to the car door, trying to hold himself steady, as the world spun past the window…

7. He wasn’t sure he could eat the hand of a fellow human being, but he was dying….

8. He took one look over the side of the high cathedral walls, took a couple of steps back and leaped over the edge…

9. The bright harvest moon began to get smaller and smaller as the two celestial bodies began to drift away from each other

10. She was still blind folded as she felt along the ground, but she could smell the stench…

11. It was Christmas after all, the lights might have been extremely unsafe but…

12. He was so tired. When he jolted himself away for a third time, he was face to face with the headlights….

13. She balanced herself on the limb looking into his bedroom window she saw…

14. Without his big toes it WAS incredibly difficult to walk.

14a.  Writing a prompt about this picture:creative writing prompt picture of a woods

15.Write a story about a time you were late for now good reason.

16. Empty your pocket/purse onto the table.

Pick three random items.
Place them each on a white piece of paper in front of you. (this is to enable you too see them in relative isolation)
Label each piece of paper as I, 2, or 3
You must pick from one of the following –

These items are clues to either:

A. A murder
B. The end of an Affair or
C. The last known activity of someone who has disappeared.
Chose from A,B or C.
Now –
Start with the object you have labelled ’1′ & write for 10 mins about this.
Repeat for 2 and then 3.
Fit the three sections into a story.
When finished, lob of the ending you have written, and give the story the exact opposite ending

17. Write a blasphemy.

18. Nick was watching tv when the news anchor said, “Nick you really shouldn’t be watching tv. You need to go talk to Carol right now. Call her.”

19. Nick was watching tv when the news anchor said, “Nick you really shouldn’t be watching tv. You need to go talk to Carol right now. Kill her.”

20. Write a prayer.

21. This is one I’ve just made up, would be interested to hear how anyone gets on, might try it myself 🙂 Takes just over 30 minutes to complete

Empty your pocket/purse onto the table.

Pick three random items.

Place them each on a white piece of paper in front of you. (this is to enable you too see them in relative isolation)

Label each piece of paper as I, 2, or 3

You must pick from one of the following –

These items are clues to either

A. A murder
B. The end of an Affair or
C. The last known activity of someone who has disappeared.

Chose from A,B or C.

Now –
Start with the object you have labelled ’1′ & write for 10 mins about this.
Repeat for 2 and then 3.
Fit the three sections into a story.
When finished, lob of the ending you have written, and give the story the exact opposite ending.

22. Write a story about a time you were late for now good reason

23. Think of any television, movie, book, or historical character that inspires you. They can be living or dead. Write a journey story with this character as your guide.

24. Write a story where you have to decide to save the life of one loved one or another. You can only save one.

24a. Use the following picture as your writing prompt:


25. You’re reading my mind. Fellow John S. and I sat down three weeks ago and decided that we, too, would write a book of prompts. He had picked up a neat book of prompts at a writer’s conference. We thought that we could create our own. But I like to share, too. So, here are a couple, for what it’s worth.

26.  Your cell phone rings with an unknown number. You recognize the prefix. You answer and the voice on the other end says, “I’m the sister that you didn’t know you had. Want to know more?”

27. You’ve had a really rotten year financially. Your friends give you nice gifts, but you can’t afford it. What do you do?

* You are stopped by law enforcement on a not-so-traveled road. He claims that you were speeding and broke several other traffic laws. He can take you to jail and impound your car. But you can go free without a ticket if you perform oral sex on him. What do you do?

28. Describe the perfect meal. Who made it? Where do you eat it? Who’s with you?

29. It was Christmas morning. The sidewalks were empty except for a lone man walking a kid’s bike to…

30. You wake up at 4 am, and there is a man you have never met standing over you.

31. You get a phone call from the president of the United States…

32. Write a letter to a dead world leader. The letter will be sent through a newly invented time machine.

33. You turn the bathroom light on in the morning and there is a ghost floating behind you in the mirror…

34. Write a short story that is less than 25 words.

35. Write a poem that is 16 words and 4 lines long.

36. Find a hotel lobby. Sit there for at least 30 minutes. Write a story about the people you see there.

37. Write a story about the tallest man in the world winning a subcompact car.

38. Find 10 items around your house. Write a poem with all 10 items in it.

39. Write a story about making a deal with the devil.

40. Write a story about this picture:


Ween by Jim Sholes

41. Write 50 word short story that does not have the words, a, an, or the.

42. First line: He fell out of the plane….

43. “This virus kills 1 in 3 people, and it has an infection rate of….” is how the news broadcasts starts when you wake up.

44. You are the secretary to the personal aid to President John F. Kennedy.

45. Use a dictionary. Find the first word of each section A-J, and use each of those words in a poem.

46. Write a 26 sentence short story that goes in alphabetical order using all the letters in the alphabet.

47. You decide to poison your husband…

48. High in the mountains, you finally decide you must eat your best friend…

49. (Emma Swan) I have an idea. Use these names of songs as titles, chapter titles or ideas for your writing:

* Comfortably numb
* Where were you last night?
* Doll parts
* Midnight confessions
* Liar, liar
* Accidents never happen
* Crash about to happen
* Does your mother know?
* Anyone for tennis?

Update! We are adding more prompts from here…..we have begun to work in earnest to write 1000 writing prompts…please help us. We want to have 1000 writing prompts here by the end of the summer, and I know I cannot do it without your help.

50. Your dog is killed while chasing a car. When the man knocks on your door to tell you, he has the bloody dog in his arms. He smiles I hit your dog…

50a. Use the following picture as your writing prompt:

Writing prompt train over a bridge

51. You wake up, upside down. Your seat belt is holding you in place, you smell smoke.

52. Write story that has at least 26 sentences. There can be more than 26, but there must be at least 26 sentence and those 26 sentence MUST go in alphabetical order from a-z. For example (this is a very rough draft):

A pain exploded inside Lester, but he was unaware of how he got into this position. Cautiously he looked around the corner. Dangerous sounds were coming from the alley. Effort was what he needed to move his legs after the long fall. Fatigue was setting in. Great effort went into him pulling himself around the corner. His legs dragged behind him dead. It was all he could manage. Just a few moments before he had been sipping a Jack and Coke aboard American Jet fight 331. Karen had been talking to him. Little did they know the plane was going to clip the side of the antenna. Moments seemed like hours as the rush of air pulled him out of the seat and then falling, falling, falling. No sound. Oceans of silence rushed over him as he fell. Pounding, pounding, pounding finally moved from his chest into his ears. Quasars burst in his eyes and then darkness. Realizations about what had happened didn’t come until he was crawling into the empty alley. Surely someone had seen him fall and would come help. That didn’t seem to be the case. Utterly exhausted he saw people rushing by at the end of the alley. Varying in the speed of their walking no one even looked down the alley. What madness, no one had seen him fall! Xanthic fingers pulled him along the asphalt. Yawning suddenly he could not keep his eyes open. Zapped of all strength his last image was of people rushing, maybe going to work, maybe going to eat, maybe something that he would never know again.

53. This one is very easy and very hard at the same time. It is not so much the writing you do but the imagination you will use to get there. The prompt: “What are the last 10 words you hope to ever write?”

54. Start a 50 word story with “She was dead before I got there….”

55. Write a juxtaposition. A juxtaposition is when 2 very unlike things are placed beside each other. Find 2 very unlike things and then write a short story based on how those two unlike images or objects go together. For instance an agoraphobe in a metoer shower. Maybe it banans and terpentin or fireworks and terrariums, anything that doesn’t seem to fit together just right. Use this to write?story to show how to the two objects or images come together.

56. Write a poem or piece of flash fiction about a day that you witnessed something violent. It might be a fight between two other people, or a fight you were in. It might also be a car accident or some other traumatic event. Start the work in the MIDDLE of the action.

57.  Write a short story, any length, about a tramatic event that you have put into slow motion. For instance a character seeing his life in review as he is crashing his car. Describe what it looks like as the shattered glass floats close to his face and eyes.


Last Man on Earth Writing Prompt

59. Finish this prompt with story 100-500 words: You’re are walking to a friends house and trip over the body of a dead alien….

60. Write a 50 word story about the end of the world.

61. Begin a short story or a poem with the line “I couldn’t find my shoes, and she woke up.” Suggested story length 500 words.

62. Write a 20 word story that begins with the word Atom(s) and ends with the word Fungus.

63. Write a short story or a poem about the picture abote. It is titled Girl in the Rain. Make either the poem or the story as long as you like.

64. Write a 50 word story that does not use the words the, a, an.

65. Write a story/poem where 2 very famous people meet for the first time and hate each other. You know, Brad Pitt gets in a fight with Jay Leno.



67. You are having lunch with a blind date. You think it’s going well. Right before the check arrives, a horrible buzzing sound starts. Everyone in the restaurant begins looking at your table. Your date opens his/her mouth and a wasp the size of a soccer ball crawls out onto her face….

68. At your child’s birthday party, in your back your, her friends are all playing pin the tail on the donkey. You are talking with the parents of your daughter’s friends when you hear the children laughing. You venture out in to the backyard, and see that the kids are watching a clown perform. You did not hire the clown. You go back into the house and ask if anyone hired the clown, and everyone stands shaking their heads. Then you hear screaming.

70. 4 am writing prompt

71. You’re been itching the small bug bite for weeks. You have been very nervous about the presentation and you’ve been itching it furiously over the last 12 hours.

72. Write a story about falling out of an airplane and surviving.

73. As you are getting things out of your bag, you realize you must have mixed things up. Somehow, this looks like your bag, but it’s not. As you open it something is moving inside….

74. Writing about someone falling in love with you. You can’t stand them.

75. You see the helicopter headed toward your home. It is flying very low, out of control, and you can tell exactly where it’s going to crash…

76. You have to cross a bridge that is 150ft off the ground, but it is very old and falling apart. Describe how you feel, and what you do to get across…

77. You find yourself floating through outer space. You have 2 hours of air. What are you last thoughts.

78. You slip and fall, you land in something sticking. When you pick yourself up, you realize you have landed in the middle of a giant bee hive.

79. At one point you realize that the new yogurt going around, is actually an alien species infecting the human race. You’ve never liked yogurt, so you haven’t been affected. Now there are yogart zombies everywhere. What will you do….


writing prompt new york time square

81. You had a fight with your significant other. you are on vacation in a strange city, Chicago, New York, some place big. It’s your first time in this city. You walked out of the hotel in a rage. You weren’t thinking. It’ late now, and for some strange reason, you feel the man, who has been following you for at least 3 blocks, is a vampire.


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Edgar Allan Poe Quotes http://www.everywritersresource.com/edgar-allan-poe-quotes/ http://www.everywritersresource.com/edgar-allan-poe-quotes/#respond Thu, 22 Jun 2017 15:51:41 +0000 http://www.everywritersresource.com/writingsense/?p=3811 Edgar Allan Poe quotes are simply something we cannot resist. Here is our large and GROWING page for all Poe quotes. A few years ago we republished one of Poe’s classic works on writing,

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Edgar Allan Poe Quotes


poe2Edgar Allan Poe quotes are simply something we cannot resist. Here is our large and GROWING page for all Poe quotes. A few years ago we republished one of Poe’s classic works on writing, and it had such a huge response, we decided to start a quotes page. These quotes are mostly based on writing, but you may find some non-writing related quotes here to.

Poe is one of those writers who is a cornerstone of horror writing, and we look to him in his quotes and writing to lead us to be better writing. Even if you are not a writer you will love these quotes. They offer a window into the mind of a great name in American History.

Poe helped define the short story, really the only American literary art form. From about 1837 to 1849 Poe’s writing began making its way around the country and the world. For this short period Poe was able to witness his impact, but there is no way he had any idea that over 150 years later we would be, at times, obsessive about his writing. Every school district still teaches some story or poem written by Poe.

Being that we are a site for writers by writers, we took the liberty to collect (at least a few) of Poe’s Quotes and put them on shareable slides. We will add new ones every now and again. So please stop back for updates.

Also, please leave your favorite Poe quotes in the comments. We are always looking for new and interesting words from the master of the macabre.

I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind. ~Edgar Allan Poe

From childhood's hour I have not been Edgar Allan Poe

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were–I have not seen
As others saw–I could not bring
My passion from a common spring–
-Edgar Allan Poe

I have great faith in fools; self-confidence my friends call it. ~Edgar Allan Poe

I have great faith in fools; self-confidence my friends call it. ~Edgar Allan Poe

An Immortal instinct, deep within the spirit of man, is thus, plainly, a sense of the Beautiful. ~Edgar Allan Poe

An Immortal instinct, deep within the spirit of man, is thus, plainly, a sense of the Beautiful. ~Edgar Allan Poe

Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality...~Edgar Allan Poe

Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality…~Edgar Allan Poe

I have no faith in human perfectibility. ~Edgar Allan Poe

I have no faith in human perfectibility. ~Edgar Allan Poe

With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion. ~Edgar Allan Poe

With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion. ~Edgar Allan Poe

I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuchas it excites, by elevating the soul. ~Edgar Allan Poe

I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuchas it excites, by elevating the soul. ~Edgar Allan Poe

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer ~Edgar Allan Poe

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer ~Edgar Allan Poe

Sleep, those little slices of death...~Edgar Allan Poe

Sleep, those little slices of death…~Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe Quotes without certain coninuity

Without a certain continuity of effort-without a certain duration of repetition of purpose-the soul is never deeply moved. ~Edgar Allan Poe

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Poem: Frost’s Roads by Jordi Valls i Pozo http://www.everywritersresource.com/poemeveryday/frosts-roads/ http://www.everywritersresource.com/poemeveryday/frosts-roads/#respond Thu, 22 Jun 2017 04:32:13 +0000 http://www.everywritersresource.com/?p=8549 Jordi Valls i Pozo (born in Barcelona, January 25, 1970) is a Catalan poet. He has lived in Santa Coloma de Gramenet, a city that strongly impressed his poetic trajectory, for the majority of his life

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Creative Business Writing: How to Make Business Writing Creative http://www.everywritersresource.com/creative-business-writing-how-to-make-business-writing-creative/ http://www.everywritersresource.com/creative-business-writing-how-to-make-business-writing-creative/#respond Tue, 06 Jun 2017 09:57:28 +0000 http://www.everywritersresource.com/?p=8519 As you keep exploring business writing, you might even start liking it. We’ll give you few tips to guide you through creative business writing.

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Creative Business Writing: How to Make Business Writing Creative

Creative Business Writing

In 2004, The National Commission of Writing published a report called Writing: A Ticket to Work… Or a Ticket Out. It showed that blue chip businesses (the ones that sell high-quality products and services) were spending $3.1 billion annually on remedial writing training. Most of this budget wasn’t spent on training new hires. It was for the improvement of the skills of current employees.

A lot has changed since 2004, but one thing remained certain: employees from all branches of business still need to write. The communication in the business world is dominated by emails. Plus, the employees and their bosses have to write reports, presentations, and proposals. Business writing is a necessary skill during the hiring process itself.

Real writers have an inexplicable aversion towards business writing. They perceive it as dry, overly structured content that has nothing to do with creativity. You’re wrong. There’s tons of space for creativity in business writing. Still, if you want to give it new life, you’ll have to know the limits. As you keep exploring business writing, you might even start liking it.

We’ll give you few tips to guide you through creative business writing.

How to Make Business Writing Creative

  1. Give Specific Examples

Abstract concepts have no place in creative business writing. Instead of writing definitions, explain your point through examples. Consider these examples:

  • “In order to achieve sustainable revenue growth, we need to boost our sales and marketing capacity.”
  • “If we don’t think of a more creative marketing campaign, we won’t boost the sales. We already lost Dell because we weren’t creative enough. We absolutely need a change.”

The second example sounds much better, right? It sends a clear message to the recipients.

  1. Cut Through the Chase

People in business are quite practical. “The purpose of the report I was required to submit was…” No one wants to read an email that starts like that. Use simple sentences and active words.

  1. Appeal to Intellect, But Emotions as Well

As a writer, you know you should appeal to the emotions of the reader. The term business writing may confuse you. Yes, you’re addressing business people and you should appeal to their intellect. However, you have to awaken some emotion, too.

Here are two examples:

  • “According to our records, we are wasting 15% of our potential conversions because we are not providing competitive services.”
  • “We’re losing conversions. That means we’re losing money. It’s not only about the money, though. It’s about the growth of our business, and that’s the goal that connects us all.”

The second example uses more vivid language. It makes the reader understand why this is important. Business writing should not be dry and lifeless.

  1. Add Some Personality

Business reports, email messages, and business presentations leave space for personality. Although they impose a certain structure, the content should reflect your unique voice. When someone gets one of your emails, they should immediately notice your unique style.

This doesn’t mean you should go crazy with the bolds, italics, capitalization and fonts. Stick to clean structure. You should never force your style. Relaxed authenticity is the impression you’re aiming for.

  1. Be Brief and Specific

Many people confuse creative writing with big words. They find the most complex words in the dictionary and use them. That’s far from appealing, especially when we’re talking about business writing. Don’t use corporate jargon! Don’t go with the big words! Just say what you need to say in the simplest way possible.

We all prefer an email with few clear instructions than an endless text where we can’t find the instructions. Get in the reader’s shoes and give them what they expect: a text they understand.

Business content shouldn’t lack a human voice. It shouldn’t be meh. It’s about time for us writers to bring it to life.

Bio: Tony Picekatto is a writer working for TopBritishEssay. Her main interest is academic writing, but she continues exploring other areas of interest. In between all that writing, she still finds time for her dog.

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Review of Kate Chopin’s “The Awakening” by Willa Cather http://www.everywritersresource.com/review-of-kate-chopins-the-awakening-by-willa-cather/ http://www.everywritersresource.com/review-of-kate-chopins-the-awakening-by-willa-cather/#respond Sun, 04 Jun 2017 01:26:41 +0000 http://www.everywritersresource.com/writingsense/?p=543 Review of Kate Chopin's "The Awakening" by Willa Cather A Creole “Bovary” is this little novel of Miss Chopin’s. Not that the heroine is a creole exactly, or that Miss Chopin is a Flaubert—save the mark!—but the theme is similar to that which occupied Flaubert.

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Willa Cather

“THE AWAKENING.” Kate Chopin. $1.25. Chicago: H. S. Stone & Co. Pittsburg: J. R. Weldin & Co.

A Creole “Bovary” is this little novel of Miss Chopin’s. Not that the heroine is a creole exactly, or that Miss Chopin is a Flaubert—save the mark!—but the theme is similar to that which occupied Flaubert. There was, indeed, no need that a second “Madame Bovary” should be written, but an author’s choice of themes is frequently as inexplicable as his choice of a wife. It is governed by some innate temperamental bias that cannot be diagrammed. This is particularly so in women who write, and I shall not attempt to say why Miss Chopin has devoted so exquisite and sensitive, well-governed a style to so trite and sordid a theme. She writes much better than it is ever given to most people to write, and hers is a genuinely literary style; of no great elegance or solidity; but light, flexible, subtle and capable of producing telling effects directly and simply. The story she has to tell in the present instance is new neither in matter nor treatment. “Edna Pontellier,” a Kentucky girl, who, like “Emma Bovary,” had been in love with innumerable dream heroes before she was out of short skirts, married “Leonce Pontellier” as a sort of reaction from a vague and visionary passion for a tragedian whose unresponsive picture she used to kiss. She acquired the habit of liking her husband in time, and even of liking her children. Though we are not justified in presuming that she ever threw articles from her dressing table at them, as the charming “Emma” had a winsome habit of doing, we are told that “she would sometimes gather them passionately to her heart, she would sometimes forget them.” At a creole watering place, which is admirably and deftly sketched by Miss Chopin, “Edna” met “Robert Lebrun,” son of the landlady, who dreamed of a fortune awaiting him in Mexico while he occupied a petty clerical position in New Orleans. “Robert” made it his business to be agreeable to his mother’s boarders, and “Edna,” not being a creole, much against his wish and will, took him seriously. “Robert” went to Mexico but found that  fortunes were no easier to make there than in New Orleans. He returns and does not even call to pay his respects to her. She encounters him at the home of a friend and takes him home with her. She wheedles him into staying for dinner, and we are told she sent the maid off “in search of some delicacy she had not thought of for herself, and she recommended great care in the dripping of the coffee and having the omelet done to a turn.”

Only a few pages back we were informed that the husband, “M. Pontellier,” had cold soup and burnt fish for his dinner. Such is life. The lover of course disappointed her, was a coward and ran away from his responsibilities before they began. He was afraid to begin a chapter with so serious and limited a woman. She remembered the sea where she had first met “Robert.” Perhaps from the same motive which threw “Anna Keraninna” under the engine wheels, she threw herself into the sea, swam until she was tired and then let go.

“She looked into the distance, and for a moment the old terror flamed up, then sank again. She heard her father’s voice, and her sister Margaret’s. She heard the barking of an old dog that was chained to the sycamore tree. The spurs of the cavalry officer clanged as he walked across the porch. There was a hum of bees, and the musky odor of pinks filled the air.”

“Edna Pontellier” and “Emma Bovary” are studies in the same feminine type; one a finished and complete portrayal, the other a hasty sketch, but the theme is essentially the same. Both women belong to a class, not large, but forever clamoring in our ears, that demands more romance out of life than God put into it. Mr. G. Barnard Shaw would say that they are the victims of the over-idealization of love. They are the spoil of the poets, the Iphigenias of sentiment. The unfortunate feature of their disease is that it attacks only women of brains, at least of rudimentary brains, but whose development is one-sided; women of strong and fine intuitions, but without the faculty of observation, comparison, reasoning about things. Probably, for emotional people, the most convenient thing about being able to think is that it occasionally gives them a rest from feeling. Now with women of the “Bovary” type,  this relaxation and recreation is impossible. They are not critics of life, but, in the most personal sense, partakers of life. They receive impressions through the fancy. With them everything begins with fancy, and passions rise in the brain rather than in the blood, the poor, neglected, limited one-sided brain that might do so much better things than badgering itself into frantic endeavors to love. For these are the people who pay with their blood for the fine ideals of the poets, as Marie Delclasse paid for Dumas’ great creation, “Marguerite Gauthier.” These people really expect the passion of love to fill and gratify every need of life, whereas nature only intended that it should meet one of many demands. They insist upon making it stand for all the emotional pleasures of life and art, expecting an individual and self-limited passion to yield infinite variety, pleasure and distraction, to contribute to their lives what the arts and the pleasurable exercise of the intellect gives to less limited and less intense idealists. So this passion, when set up against Shakespeare, Balzac, Wagner, Raphael, fails them. They have staked everything on one hand, and they lose. They have driven the blood until it will drive no further, they have played their nerves up to the point where any relaxation short of absolute annihilation is impossible. Every idealist abuses his nerves, and every sentimentalist brutally abuses them. And in the end, the nerves get even. Nobody ever cheats them, really. Then “the awakening” comes. Sometimes it comes in the form of arsenic, as it came to “Emma Bovary,” sometimes it is carbolic acid taken covertly in the police station, a goal to which unbalanced idealism not infrequently leads. “Edna Pontellier,” fanciful and romantic to the last, chose the sea on a summer night and went down with the sound of her first lover’s spurs in her ears, and the scent of pinks about her. And next time I hope that Miss Chopin will devote that flexible, iridescent style of hers to a better cause.

Pittsburg Leader, July 8, 1899

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The Art of Fiction by Henry James http://www.everywritersresource.com/the-art-of-fiction-by-henry-james/ http://www.everywritersresource.com/the-art-of-fiction-by-henry-james/#respond Fri, 02 Jun 2017 17:04:45 +0000 http://www.everywritersresource.com/writingsense/?p=530 The Art of Fiction by Henry James: I should not have affixed so comprehensive a title to these few remarks, necessarily wanting in any completeness, upon a subject the full consideration of which would carry us far, did I not seem to discover a pretext

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I should not have affixed so comprehensive a title to these few remarks, necessarily wanting in any completeness, upon a subject the full consideration of which would carry us far, did I not seem to discover a pretext for my temerity in the interesting pamphlet lately published under this name by Mr. Walter Besant. Mr. Besant’s lecture at the Royal Institution–the original form of his pamphlet–appears to indicate that many persons are interested in the art of fiction and are not indifferent to such remarks as those who practise it may attempt to make about it. I am therefore anxious not to lose the benefit of this favourable association, and to edge in a few words under cover of the attention which Mr. Besant is sure to have excited. There is something very encouraging in his having put into form certain of his ideas on the mystery of story-telling.

The Art of Fiction by Henry James

It is a proof of life and curiosity–curiosity on the part of the brotherhood of novelists, as well as on the part of their readers. Only a short time ago it might have been supposed that the English novel was not what the French call discutable. It had no air of having a theory, a conviction, a consciousness of itself behind it-of being the expression of an artistic faith, the result of choice and comparison. I do not say it was necessarily the worse for that; it would take much more courage than I possess to intimate that the form of the novel, as Dickens and Thackeray (for instance) saw it had any taint of incompleteness. It was, however, naïf (if I may help myself out with another French word); and, evidently, if it is destined to suffer in any way for having lost its naïveté it has now an idea of making sure of the corresponding advantages. During the period I have alluded to there was a comfortable, good-humoured feeling abroad that a novel is a novel, as a pudding is a pudding, and that this was the end of it. But within a year or two, for some reason or other, there have been signs of returning animation-the era of discussion would appear to have been to a certain extent opened. Art lives upon discussion, upon experiment, upon curiosity, upon variety of attempt, upon the exchange of views and the comparison of standpoints; and there is a presumption that those times when no one has anything particular to say about it, and has no reason to give for practice or preference, though they may be times of genius, are not times of development, are times possibly even, a little, of dulness. The successful application of any art is a delightful spectacle, but the theory, too, is interesting; and though there is a great deal of the latter without the former, I suspect there has never been a genuine success that has not had a latent core of conviction. Discussion, suggestion, formulation, these things are fertilizing when they are frank and sincere. Mr. Besant has set an excellent example in saying what he thinks, for his part, about the way in which fiction should be written, as well as about the way in which it should be published; for his view of the “art,” carried on into an appendix, covers that too. Other labourers in the same field will doubtless take up the argument, they will give it the light of their experience, and the effect will surely be to make our interest in the novel a little more what it had for some time threatened to fail to be–a serious, active, inquiring interest, under protection of which this delightful study may, in moments of confidence, venture to say a little more what it thinks of itself.

It must take itself seriously for the public to take it so. The old superstition about fiction being “wicked” has doubtless died out in England; but the spirit of it lingers in a certain oblique regard directed toward any story which does not more or less admit that it is only a joke. Even the most jocular novel feels in some degree the weight of the proscription that was formerly directed against literary levity; the jocularity does not always succeed in passing for gravity. It is still expected, though perhaps people are ashamed to say it, that a production which is after all only a “make believe” (for what else is a “story”?) shall be in some degree apologetic–shall renounce the pretension of attempting really to compete with life. This, of course, any sensible wide-awake story declines to do, for it quickly perceives that the tolerance granted to it on such a condition is only an attempt to stifle it, disguised in the form of generosity. The old evangelical hostility to the novel, which was as explicit as it was narrow, and which regarded it as little less favourable to our immortal part than a stage-play, was in reality far less insulting. The only reason for the existence of a novel is that it does compete with life. When it ceases to compete as the canvas of the painter competes, it will have arrived at a very strange pass. It is not expected of the picture that it will make itself humble in order to be forgiven; and the analogy between the art of the painter and the art of the novelist is, so far as I am able to see, complete. Their inspiration is the same, their process (allowing for the different quality of the vehicle) is the same, their success is the same. They may learn from each other, they may explain and sustain each other. Their cause is the same, and the honour of one is the honour of another. Peculiarities of manner, of execution, that correspond on either side, exist in each of them and contribute to their development. The Mahometans think a picture an unholy thing, but it is a long time since any Christian did, and it is therefore the more odd that in the Christian mind the traces (dissimulated though they may be) of a suspicion of the sister art should linger to this day. The only effectual way to lay it to rest is to emphasize the analogy to which I just alluded–to insist on the fact that as the picture is reality, so the novel is history. That is the only general description (which does it justice) that we may give the novel. But history also is allowed to compete with life, as I say; it is not, any more than painting, expected to apologize. The subject-matter of fiction is stored up likewise in documents and records, and if it will not give itself away, as they say in California, it must speak with assurance, with the tone of the historian. Certain accomplished novelists have a habit of giving themselves away which must often bring tears to the eyes of people who take their fiction seriously. I was lately struck, in reading over many pages of Anthony Trollope, with his want of discretion in this particular. In a digression, a parenthesis or an aside, he concedes to the reader that he and this trusting friend are only “making believe.” He admits that the events he narrates have not really happened, and that he can give his narrative any turn the reader may like best. Such a betrayal of a sacred office seems to me, I confess, a terrible crime; it is what I mean by the attitude of apology, and it shocks me every whit as much in Trollope as it would have shocked me in Gibbon or Macaulay. It implies that the novelist is less occupied in looking for the truth (the truth, of course I mean, that he assumes, the premises that we must grant him, whatever they may be) than the historian, and in doing so it deprives him at a stroke of all his standing-room. To represent and illustrate the past, the actions of men, is the task of either writer, and the only difference that I can see is, in proportion as he succeeds, to the honour of the novelist, consisting as it does in his having more difficulty in collecting his evidence, which is so far from being purely literary. It seems to me to give him a great character, the fact that he has at once so much in common with the philosopher and the painter; this double analogy is a magnificent heritage.

It is of all this evidently that Mr. Besant is full when he insists upon the fact that fiction is one of the fine arts, deserving in its turn of all the honours and emoluments that have hitherto been reserved for the successful profession of music, poetry, painting, architecture. It is impossible to insist too much on so important a truth, and the place that Mr. Besant demands for the work of the novelist may be represented, a trifle less abstractly, by saying that he demands not only that it shall be reputed artistic, but that it shall be reputed very artistic indeed. It is excellent that he should have struck this note, for his doing so indicates that there was need of it, that his proposition may be to many people a novelty. One rubs one’s eyes at the thought; but the rest of Mr. Besant’s essay confirms the revelation. I suspect, in truth, that it would be possible to confirm it still further, and that one would not be far wrong in saying that in addition to the people to whom it has never occurred that a novel ought to be artistic, there are a great many others who, if this principle were urged upon them, would be filled with an indefinable mistrust. They would find it difficult to explain their repugnance, but it would operate strongly to put them on their guard. “Art,” in our Protestant communities, where so many things have got so strangely twisted about, is supposed, in certain circles, to have some vaguely injurious effect upon those who make it an important consideration, who let it weigh in the balance. It is assumed to be opposed in some mysterious manner to morality, to amusement, to instruction. When it is embodied in the work of the painter (the sculptor is another affair!) you know what it is; it stands there before you, in the honesty of pink and green and a gilt frame; you can see the worst of it at a glance, and you can be on your guard. But when it is introduced into literature it becomes more insidious–there is danger of its hurting you before you know it. Literature should be either instructive or amusing, and there is in many minds an impression that these artistic preoccupations, the search for form, contribute to neither end, interfere indeed with both. They are too frivolous to be edifying, and too serious to be diverting; and they are, moreover, priggish and paradoxical and superfluous. That, I think, represents the manner in which the latent thought of many people who read novels as an exercise in skipping would explain itself if it were to become articulate. They would argue, of course, that a novel ought to be “good,” but they would interpret this term in a fashion of their own, which, indeed would vary considerably from one critic to another. One would say that being good means representing virtuous and aspiring characters, placed in prominent positions; another would say that it depends for a “happy ending” on a distribution at the last of prizes, pensions, husbands, wives, babies, millions, appended paragraphs and cheerful remarks. Another still would say that it means being full of incident and movement, so that we shall wish to jump ahead, to see who was the mysterious stranger, and if the stolen will was ever found, and shall not be distracted from this pleasure by any tiresome analysis or “description.” But they would all agree that the “artistic'” idea would spoil some of their fun. One would hold it accountable for all the description, another would see it revealed in the absence of sympathy. Its hostility to a happy ending would be evident, and it might even, in some cases, render any ending at all impossible. The “ending” of a novel is, for many persons, like that of a good dinner, a course of dessert and ices, and the artist in fiction is regarded as a sort of meddlesome doctor who forbids agreeable aftertastes. It is therefore true that this conception of Mr. Besant’s of the novel as a superior form encounters not only a negative but a positive indifference. It matters little that, as a work of art, it should really be as little or as much concerned to supply happy endings, sympathetic characters, and an objective tone, as if it were a work of mechanics; the association of ideas, however incongruous, might easily be too much for it if an eloquent voice were not sometimes raised to call attention to the fact that it is at once as free and as serious a branch of literature as any other.

Certainly, this might sometimes be doubted in presence of the enormous number of works of fiction that appeal to the credulity of our generation, for it might easily seem that there could be no great substance in a commodity so quickly and easily produced. It must be admitted that good novels are somewhat compromised by bad ones, and that the field, at large, suffers discredit from overcrowding. I think, however, that this injury is only superficial, and that the superabundance of written fiction proves nothing against the principle itself. It has been vulgarised, like all other kinds of literature, like everything else, to-day, and it has proved more than some kinds accessible to vulgarisation. But there is as much difference as there ever was between a good novel and a bad one: the bad is swept, with all the daubed canvases and spoiled marble, into some unvisited limbo or infinite rubbish-yard, beneath the back-windows of the world, and the good subsists and emits its light and stimulates our desire for perfection. As I shall take the liberty of making but a single criticism of Mr. Besant, whose tone is so full of the love of his art, I may as well have done with it at once. He seems to me to mistake in attempting to say so definitely beforehand what sort of an affair the good novel will be. To indicate the danger of such an error as that has been the purpose of these few pages; to suggest that certain traditions on the subject, applied a priori, have already had much to answer for, and that the good health of an art which undertakes so immediately to reproduce life must demand that it be perfectly free. It lives upon exercise, and the very meaning of exercise is freedom. The only obligation to which in advance we may hold a novel without incurring the accusation of being arbitrary, is that it be interesting. That general responsibility rests upon it, but it is the only one I can think of. The ways in which it is at liberty to accomplish this result (of interesting us) strike me as innumerable and such as can only suffer from being marked out, or fenced in, by prescription. They are as various as the temperament of man, and they are successful in proportion as they reveal a particular mind, different from others. A novel is in its broadest definition a personal impression of life; that, to begin with, constitutes its value, which is greater or less according to the intensity of the impression. But there will be no intensity at all, and therefore no value, unless there is freedom to feel and say. The tracing of a line to be followed, of a tone to be taken, of a form to be filled out, is a limitation of that freedom and a suppression of the very thing that we are most curious about. The form, it seems to me, is to be appreciated after the fact; then the author’s choice has been made, his standard has been indicated; then we can follow lines and directions and compare tones. Then, in a word, we can enjoy one of the most charming of pleasures, we can estimate quality, we can apply the test of execution. The execution belongs to the author alone; it is what is most personal to him, and we measure him by that. The advantage, the luxury, as well as the torment and responsibility of the novelist, is that there is no limit to what he may attempt as an executant–no limit to his possible experiments, efforts, discoveries, successes. Here it is especially that he works, step by step, like his brother of the brush, of whom we may always say that he has painted his picture in a manner best known to himself. His manner is his secret, not necessarily a deliberate one. He cannot disclose it, as a general thing, if he would; he would be at a loss to teach it to others. I say this with a due recollection of having insisted on the community of method of the artist who paints a picture and the artist who writes a novel. The painter is able to teach the rudiments of his practice, and it is possible, from the study of good work (granted the aptitude), both to learn how to paint and to learn how to write. Yet it remains true, without injury to the rapprochement, that the literary artist would be obliged to say to his pupil much more than the other, “Ah, well, you must do it as you can!” It is a question of degree, a matter of delicacy. If there are exact sciences there are also exact arts, and the grammar of painting is so much more definite that it makes the difference.

I ought to add, however, that if Mr. Besant says at the beginning of his essay that the “laws of fiction may be laid down and taught with as much precision and exactness as the laws of harmony, perspective, and proportion,” he mitigates what might appear to be an over-statement by applying his remark to “general” laws, and by expressing most of these rules in a manner with which it would certainly be unaccommodating to disagree. That the novelist must write from his experience, that his “characters must be real and such as might be met with in actual life;” that “a young lady brought up in a quiet country village should avoid descriptions of garrison life,” and “a writer whose friends and personal experiences belong to the lower middle-class should carefully avoid introducing his characters into Society;” that one should enter one’s notes in a common-place book; that one’s figures should be clear in outline; that making them clear by some trick of speech or of carriage is a bad method, and “describing them at length” is a worse one; that English Fiction should have a “conscious moral purpose;” that “it is almost impossible to estimate too highly the value of careful workmanship-that is, of style;” that “the most important point of all is the story,” that “the story is everything”–these are principles with most of which it is surely impossible not to sympathise. That remark about the lower middle-class writer and his knowing his place is perhaps rather chilling; but for the rest, I should find it difficult to dissent from any one of these recommendations. At the same time I should find it difficult positively to assent to them, with the exception, perhaps, of the injunction as to entering one’s notes in a common-place book. They scarcely seem to me to have the quality that Mr. Besant attributes to the rules of the novelist–the “precision and exactness” of “the laws of harmony, perspective, and proportion.” They are suggestive, they are even inspiring, but they are not exact, though they are doubtless as much so as the case admits of; which is a proof of that liberty of interpretation for which I just contended. For the value of these different injunctions–so beautiful and so vague–is wholly in the meaning one attaches to them. The characters, the situation, which strike one as real will be those that touch and interest one most, but the measure of reality is very difficult to fix. The reality of Don Quixote or of Mr. Micawber is a very delicate shade; it is a reality so coloured by the author’s vision that, vivid as it may be, one would hesitate to propose it as a model; one would expose one’s self to some very embarrassing questions on the part of a pupil. It goes without saying that you will not write a good novel unless you possess the sense of reality; but it will be difficult to give you a recipe for calling that sense into being. Humanity is immense and reality has a myriad forms; the most one can affirm is that some of the flowers of fiction have the odour of it, and others have not; as for telling you in advance how your nosegay should be composed, that is another affair. It is equally excellent and inconclusive to say that one must write from experience; to our supposititious aspirant such a declaration might savour of mockery. What kind of experience is intended, and where does it begin and end? Experience is never limited and it is never complete; it is an immense sensibility, a kind of huge spider-web, of the finest silken threads, suspended in the chamber of consciousness and catching every air-borne particle in its tissue. It is the very atmosphere of the mind; and when the mind is imaginative–much more when it happens to be that of a man of genius–it takes to itself the faintest hints of life, it converts the very pulses of the air into revelations. The young lady living in a village has only to be a damsel upon whom nothing is lost to make it quite unfair (as it seems to me) to declare to her that she shall have nothing to say about the military. Greater miracles have been seen than that, imagination assisting, she should speak the truth about some of these gentlemen. I remember an English novelist, a woman of genius, telling me that she was much commended for the impression she had managed to give in one of her tales of the nature and way of life of the French Protestant youth. She had been asked where she learned so much about this recondite being, she had been congratulated on her peculiar opportunities. These opportunities consisted in her having once, in Paris, as she ascended a staircase, passed an open door where, in the household of a pasteur, some of the young Protestants were seated at table round a finished meal. The glimpse made a picture; it lasted only a moment, but that moment was experience. She had got her impression, and she evolved her type. She knew what youth was, and what Protestantism; she also had the advantage of having seen what it was to be French; so that she converted these ideas into a concrete image and produced a reality. Above all, however, she was blessed with the faculty which when you give it an inch takes an ell, and which for the artist is a much greater source of strength than any accident of residence or of place in the social scale. The power to guess the unseen from the seen, to trace the implication of things, to judge the whole piece by the pattern, the condition of feeling life, in general, so completely that you are well on your way to knowing any particular corner of it–this cluster of gifts may almost be said to constitute experience, and they occur in country and in town, and in the most differing stages of education. If experience consists of impressions, it may be said that impressions are experience, just as (have we not seen it?) they are the very air we breathe. Therefore, if I should certainly say to a novice, “Write from experience, and experience only,” I should feel that this was a rather tantalising monition if I were not careful immediately to add, “Try to be one of the people on whom nothing is lost!”

I am far from intending by this to minimise the importance of exactness-of truth of detail. One can speak best from one’s own taste, and I may therefore venture to say that the air of reality (solidity of specification) seems to me to be the supreme virtue of a novel–the merit on which all its other merits (including that conscious moral purpose of which Mr. Besant speaks) helplessly and submissively depend. If it be not there, they are all as nothing, and if these be there, they owe their effect to the success with which the author has produced the illusion of life. The cultivation of this success, the study of this exquisite process, form, to my taste, the beginning and the end of the art of the novelist. They are his inspiration, his despair, his reward, his torment, his delight. It is here, in very truth, that he competes with life; it is here that he competes with his brother the painter in his attempt to render the look of things, the look that conveys their meaning, to catch the colour, the relief, the expression, the surface, the substance of the human spectacle. It is in regard to this that Mr. Besant is well inspired when he bids him take notes. He cannot possibly take too many, he cannot possibly take enough. All life solicits him, and to “render” the simplest surface, to produce the most momentary illusion, is a very complicated business. His case would be easier, and the rule would be more exact, if Mr. Besant had been able to tell him what notes to take. But this I fear he can never learn in any hand-book; it is the business of his life. He has to take a great many in order to select a few, he has to work them up as he can, and even the guides and philosophers who might have most to say to him must leave him alone when it comes to the application of precepts, as we leave the painter in communion with his palette. That his characters “must be clear in outline,” as Mr. Besant says–he feels that down to his boots; but how he shall make them so is a secret between his good angel and himself. It would be absurdly simple if he could be taught that a great deal of “description” would make them so, or that, on the contrary, the absence of description and the cultivation of dialogue, or the absence of dialogue and the multiplication of “incident,” would rescue him from his difficulties. Nothing, for instance, is more possible than that he be of a turn of mind for which this odd, literal opposition of description and dialogue, incident and description, has little meaning and light. People often talk of these things as if they had a kind of internecine distinctness, instead of melting into each other at every breath and being intimately associated parts of one general effort of expression. I cannot imagine composition existing in a series of blocks, nor conceive, in any novel worth discussing at all, of a passage of description that is not in its intention narrative, a passage of dialogue that is not in its intention descriptive, a touch of truth of any sort that does not partake of the nature of incident, and an incident that derives its interest from any other source than the general and only source of the success of a work of art-that of being illustrative. A novel is a living thing, all one and continuous, like every other organism, and in proportion as it lives will it be found, I think, that in each of the parts there is something of each of the other parts. The critic who over the close texture of a finished work will pretend to trace a geography of items will mark some frontiers as artificial, I fear, as any that have been known to history. There is an old-fashioned distinction between the novel of character and the novel of incident, which must have cost many a smile to the intending romancer who was keen about his work. It appears to me as little to the point as the equally celebrated distinction between the novel and the romance- to answer as little to any reality. There are bad novels and good novels, as there are bad pictures and good pictures; but that is the only distinction in which I see any meaning, and I can as little imagine speaking of a novel of character as I can imagine speaking of a picture of character. When one says picture, one says of character, when one says novel, one says of incident, and the terms may be transposed. What is character but the determination of incident? What is incident but the illustration of character? What is a picture or a novel that is not of character? What else do we seek in it and find in it? It is an incident for a woman to stand up with her hand resting on a table and look out at you in a certain way; or if it be not an incident, I think it will be hard to say what it is. At the same time it is an expression of character. If you say you don’t see it (character in that-allons donc!) this is exactly what the artist who has reasons of his own for thinking he does see it undertakes to show you. When a young man makes up his mind that he has not faith enough, after all, to enter the Church, as he intended, that is an incident, though you may not hurry to the end of the chapter to see whether perhaps he doesn’t change once more. I do not say that these are extraordinary or startling incidents. I do not pretend to estimate the degree of interest proceeding from them, for this will depend upon the skill of the painter. It sounds almost puerile to say that some incidents are intrinsically much more important than others, and I need not take this precaution after having professed my sympathy for the major ones in remarking that the only classification of the novel that I can understand is into the interesting and the uninteresting.

The novel and the romance, the novel of incident and that of character–these separations appear to me to have been made by critics and readers for their own convenience, and to help them out of some of their difficulties, but to have little reality or interest for the producer, from whose point of view it is, of course, that we are attempting to consider the art of fiction. The case is the same with another shadowy category, which Mr. Besant apparently is disposed to set up-that of the “modern English novel;” unless, indeed, it be that in this matter he has fallen into an accidental confusion of standpoints. It is not quite clear whether he intends the remarks in which he alludes to it to be didactic or historical. It is as difficult to suppose a person intending to write a modern English, as to suppose him writing an ancient English, novel; that is a label which begs the question. One writes the novel, one paints the picture, of one’s language and of one’s time, and calling it modern English will not, alas! make the difficult task any easier. No more, unfortunately, will calling this or that work of one’s fellow artist a romance-unless it be, of course, simply for the pleasantness of the thing, as, for instance, when Hawthorne gave this heading to his story of Blithedale. The French, who have brought the theory of fiction to remarkable completeness, have but one word for the novel, and have not attempted smaller things in it, that I can see, for that. I can think of no obligation to which the ‘romancer’ would not be held equally with the novelist; the standard of execution is equally high for each. Of course it is of execution that we are talking-that being the only point of a novel that is open to contention. This is perhaps too often lost sight of, only to produce interminable confusions and cross-purposes. We must grant the artist his subject, his idea, what the French call his donnée; our criticism is applied only to what he makes of it. Naturally I do not mean that we are bound to like it or find it interesting: in case we do not our course is perfectly simple–to let it alone. We may believe that of a certain idea even the most sincere novelist can make nothing at all, and the event may perfectly justify our belief; but the failure will have been a failure to execute, and it is in the execution that the fatal weakness is recorded. If we pretend to respect the artist at all we must allow him his freedom of choice, in the face, in particular cases, of innumerable presumptions that the choice will not fructify. Art derives a considerable part of its beneficial exercise from flying in the face of presumptions, and some of the most interesting experiments of which it is capable are hidden in the bosom of common things. Gustave Flaubert has written a story about the devotion of a servant-girl to a parrot, and the production, highly finished as it is, cannot on the whole be called a success. We are perfectly free to find it flat, but I think it might have been interesting; and I, for my part, am extremely glad he should have written it; it is a contribution to our knowledge of what can be done or what cannot. Ivan Turgénieff has written a tale about a deaf and dumb serf and a lap-dog, and the thing is touching, loving, a little masterpiece. He struck the note of life where Gustave Flaubert missed it-he flew in the face of a presumption and achieved a victory.

Nothing, of course, will ever take the place of the good old fashion of “liking” a work of art or not liking it; the more improved criticism will not abolish that primitive, that ultimate, test. I mention this to guard myself from the accusation of intimating that the idea, the subject, of a novel or a picture, does not matter. It matters, to my sense, in the highest degree, and if I might put up a prayer it would be that artists should select none but the richest. Some, as I have already hastened to admit, are much more substantial than others , and it would be a happily arranged world in which persons intending to treat them should be exempt from confusions and mistakes. This fortunate condition will arrive only, I fear, on the same day that critics become purged from error. Meanwhile, I repeat, we do not judge the artist with fairness unless we say to him, “Oh, I grant you your starting point, because if I did not I should seem to prescribe to you, and heaven forbid I should take that responsibility. If I pretend to tell you what you must not take, you will call upon me to tell you then what you must take; in which case I shall be nicely caught! Moreover, it isn’t till I have accepted your data that I can begin to measure you. I have the standard; I judge you by what you propose, and you must look out for me there. Of course I may not care for your idea at all; I may think it silly, or stale, or unclean; in which case I wash my hands of you altogether. I may content myself with believing that you will not have succeeded in being interesting, but I shall of course not attempt to demonstrate it, and you will be as indifferent to me as I am to you. I needn’t remind you that there are all sorts of tastes: who can know it better? Some people, for excellent reasons, don’t like to read about carpenters; others, for reasons even better, don’t like to read about courtesans. Many object to Americans. Others (I believe they are mainly editors and publishers) won’t look at Italians. Some readers don’t like quiet subjects; others don’t like bustling ones. Some enjoy a complete illusion; others revel in a complete deception. They choose their novels accordingly, and if they don’t care about your idea they won’t, a fortiori, care about your treatment.”

So that it comes back very quickly, as I have said, to the liking; in spite of M. Zola, who reasons less powerfully than he represents, and who will not reconcile himself to this absoluteness of taste, thinking that there are certain things that people ought to like, and that they can be made to like. I am quite at a loss to imagine anything (at any rate in this matter of fiction) that people ought to like or to dislike. Selection will be sure to take care of itself, for it has a constant motive behind it. That motive is simply experience. As people feel life, so they will feel the art that is most closely related to it. This closeness of relation is what we should never forget in talking of the effort of the novel. Many people speak of it as a factitious, artificial form, a product of ingenuity, the business of which is to alter and arrange the things that surround us, to translate them into conventional, traditional moulds. This, however, is a view of the matter which carries us but a very short way, condemns the art to an eternal repetition of a few familiar clichés, cuts short its development, and leads us straight up to a dead wall. Catching the very note and trick, the strange irregular rhythm of life, that is the attempt whose strenuous force keeps Fiction upon her feet. In proportion as in what she offers us we see life without rearrangement do we feel that we are touching the truth; in proportion as we see it with rearrangement do we feel that we are being put off with a substitute, a compromise and convention. It is not uncommon to hear an extraordinary assurance of remark in regard to this matter of rearranging, which is often spoken of as if it were the last word of art. Mr. Besant seems to me in danger of falling into this great error with his rather unguarded talk about “selection.” Art is essentially selection, but it is a selection whose main care is to be typical, to be inclusive. For many people art means rose-coloured windows, and selection means picking a bouquet for Mrs. Grundy. They will tell you glibly that artistic considerations have nothing to do with the disagreeable, with the ugly; they will rattle off shallow commonplaces about the province of art and the limits of art, till you are moved to some wonder in return as to the province and the limits of ignorance. It appears to me that no one can ever have made a seriously artistic attempt without becoming conscious of an immense increase–a kind of revelation–of freedom. One perceives, in that case-by the light of a heavenly ray-that the province of art is all life, all feeling, all observation, all vision. As Mr. Besant so justly intimates, it is all experience. That is a sufficient answer to those who maintain that it must not touch the painful, who stick into its divine unconscious bosom little prohibitory inscriptions on the end of sticks, such as we see in public gardens–“It is forbidden to walk on the grass; it is forbidden to touch the flowers; it is not allowed to introduce dogs, or to remain after dark; it is requested to keep to the right.” The young aspirant in the line of fiction, whom we continue to imagine, will do nothing without taste, for in that case his freedom would be of little use to him; but the first advantage of his taste will be to reveal to him the absurdity of the little sticks and tickets. If he have taste, I must add, of course he will have ingenuity, and my disrespectful reference to that quality just now was not meant to imply that it is useless in fiction. But it is only a secondary aid; the first is a vivid sense of reality.

Mr. Besant has some remarks on the question of “the story,” which I shall not attempt to criticise, though they seem to me to contain a singular ambiguity, because I do not think I understand them. I cannot see what is meant by talking as if there were a part of a novel which is the story and part of it which for mystical reasons is not–unless indeed the distinction be made in a sense in which it is difficult to suppose that anyone should attempt to convey anything. “The story,” if it represents anything, represents the subject, the idea, the data of the novel; and there is surely no “school”–Mr. Besant speaks of a school–which urges that a novel should be all treatment and no subject. There must assuredly be something to treat; every school is intimately conscious of that. This sense of the story being the idea, the starting-point, of the novel is the only one that I see in which it can be spoken of as something different from its organic whole; and since, in proportion as the work is successful, the idea permeates and penetrates it, informs and animates it, so that every word and every punctuation-point contribute directly to the expression, in that proportion do we lose our sense of the story being a blade which may be drawn more or less out of its sheath. The story and the novel, the idea and the form, are the needle and thread, and I never heard of a guild of tailors who recommended the use of the thread without the needle or the needle without the thread. Mr. Besant is not the only critic who may be observed to have spoken as if there were certain things in life which constitute stories and certain others which do not. I find the same odd implication in an entertaining article in the Pall Mall Gazette, devoted, as it happens, to Mr. Besant’s lecture. “The story is the thing!” says this graceful writer, as if with a tone of opposition to another idea. I should think it was, as every painter who, as the time for ‘sending in’ his picture looms in the distance, finds himself still in quest of a subject-as every belated artist, not fixed about his donnée, will heartily agree. There are some subjects which speak to us and others which do not, but he would be a clever man who should undertake to give a rule by which the story and the no-story should be known apart. It is impossible (to me at least) to imagine any such rule which shall not be altogether arbitrary. The writer in the Pall Mall opposes the delightful (as I suppose) novel of Margot la Balafrée to certain tales in which “Bostonian nymphs” appear to have “rejected English dukes for psychological reasons.” I am not acquainted with the romance just designated, and can scarcely forgive the Pall Mall critic for not mentioning the name of the author, but the title appears to refer to a lady who may have received a scar in some heroic adventure. I am inconsolable at not being acquainted with this episode, but am utterly at a loss to see why it is a story when the rejection (or acceptance) of a duke is not, and why a reason, psychological or other, is not a subject when a cicatrix is. They are all particles of the multitudinous life with which the novel deals, and surely no dogma which pretends to make it lawful to touch the one and unlawful to touch the other will stand for a moment on its feet. It is the special picture that must stand or fall, according as it seems to possess truth or to lack it. Mr. Besant does not, to my sense, light up the subject by intimating that a story must, under penalty of not being a story, consist of “adventures.” Why of adventures more than of green spectacles? He mentions a category of impossible things, and among them he places “fiction without adventure.” Why without adventure, more than without matrimony, or celibacy, or parturition, or cholera, or hydropathy, or Jansenism? This seems to me to bring the novel back to the hapless little rôle of being an artificial, ingenious thing-bring it down from its large, free character of an immense and exquisite correspondence with life. And what is adventure, when it comes to that, and by what sign is the listening pupil to recognise it? It is an adventure–an immense one–for me to write this little article; and for a Bostonian nymph to reject an English duke is an adventure only less stirring, I should say, than for an English duke to be rejected by a Bostonian nymph. I see dramas within dramas in that, and innumerable points of view. A psychological reason is, to my imagination, an object adorably pictorial; to catch the tint of its complexion-I feel as if that idea might inspire one to Titianesque efforts. There are few things more exciting to me, in short, than a psychological reason, and yet, I protest, the novel seems to me the most magnificent form of art. I have just been reading, at the same time, the delightful story of Treasure Island, by Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson, and the last tale from M. Edmond de Goncourt, which is entitled Chérie. One of these works treats of murders, mysteries, islands of dreadful renown, hairbreadth escapes, miraculous coincidences and buried doubloons. The other treats of a little French girl who lived in a fine house in Paris and died of wounded sensibility because no one would marry her. I call Treasure Island delightful, because it appears to me to have succeeded wonderfully in what it attempts; and I venture to bestow no epithet upon Chérie, which strikes me as having failed in what it attempts-that is, in tracing the development of the moral consciousness of a child. But one of these productions strikes me as exactly as much of a novel as the other, and as having a ‘story’ quite as much. The moral consciousness of a child is as much a part of life as the islands of the Spanish Main, and the one sort of geography seems to me to have those ‘surprises’ of which Mr. Besant speaks quite as much as the other. For myself (since it comes back in the last resort, as I say, to the preference of the individual), the picture of the child’s experience has the advantage that I can at successive steps (an immense luxury, near to the ‘sensual pleasure’ of which Mr. Besant’s critic in the Pall Mall speaks) say Yes or No, as it may be, to what the artist puts before me. I have been a child, but I have never been on a quest for a buried treasure, and it is a simple accident that with M. de Goncourt I should have for the most part to say No. With George Eliot, when she painted that country, I always said Yes.

The most interesting part of Mr. Besant’s lecture is unfortunately the briefest passage–his very cursory allusion to the “conscious moral purpose” of the novel. Here again it is not very clear whether he is recording a fact or laying down a principle; it is a great pity that in the latter case he should not have developed his idea. This branch of the subject is of immense importance, and Mr. Besant’s few words point to considerations of the widest reach, not to be lightly disposed of. He will have treated the art of fiction but superficially who is not prepared to go every inch of the way that these considerations will carry him. It is for this reason that at the beginning of these remarks I was careful to notify the reader that my reflections on so large a theme have no pretension to be exhaustive. Like Mr. Besant, I have left the question of the morality of the novel till the last, and at the last I find I have used up my space. It is a question surrounded with difficulties, as witness the very first that meets us, in the form of a definite question, on the threshold. Vagueness, in such a discussion, is fatal, and what is the meaning of your morality and your conscious moral purpose? Will you not define your terms and explain how (a novel being a picture) a picture can be either moral or immoral? You wish to paint a moral picture or carve a moral statue; will you not tell us how you would set about it? We are discussing the Art of Fiction; questions of art are questions (in the widest sense) of execution; questions of morality are quite another affair, and will you not let us see how it is that you find it so easy to mix them up? These things are so clear to Mr. Besant that he has deduced from them a law which he sees embodied in English Fiction and which is “a truly admirable thing and a great cause for congratulation.” It is a great cause for congratulation, indeed, when such thorny problems become as smooth as silk. I may add that, in so far as Mr. Besant perceives that in point of fact English Fiction has addressed itself preponderantly to these delicate questions, he will appear to many people to have made a vain discovery. They will have been positively struck, on the contrary, with the moral timidity of the usual English novelist; with his (or with her) aversion to face the difficulties with which, on every side, the treatment of reality bristles. He is apt to be extremely shy (whereas the picture that Mr. Besant draws is a picture of boldness), and the sign of his work, for the most part, is a cautious silence on certain subjects. In the English novel (by which I mean the American as well), more than in any other, there is a traditional difference between that which people know and that which they agree to admit that they know, that which they see and that which they speak of, that which they feel to be a part of life and that which they allow to enter into literature. There is the great difference, in short, between what they talk of in conversation and what they talk of in print. The essence of moral energy is to survey the whole field, and I should directly reverse Mr. Besant’s remark, and say not that the English novel has a purpose, but that it has a diffidence. To what degree a purpose in a work of art is a source of corruption I shall not attempt to inquire; the one that seems to me least dangerous is the purpose of making a perfect work. As for our novel, I may say, lastly, on this score, that, as we find it in England to-day, it strikes me as addressed in a large degree to “young people,” and that this in itself constitutes a presumption that it will be rather shy. There are certain things which it is generally agreed not to discuss, not even to mention, before young people. That is very well, but the absence of discussion is not a symptom of the moral passion. The purpose of the English novel–“a truly admirable thing, and a great cause for congratulation”–strikes me, therefore, as rather negative.

There is one point at which the moral sense and the artistic sense lie very near together; that is, in the light of the very obvious truth that the deepest quality of a work of art will always be the quality of the mind of the producer. In proportion as that mind is rich and noble will the novel, the picture, the statue, partake of the substance of beauty and truth. To be constituted of such elements is, to my vision, to have purpose enough. No good novel will ever proceed from a superficial mind; that seems to me an axiom which, for the artist in fiction, will cover all needful moral ground; if the youthful aspirant take it to heart it will illuminate for him many of the mysteries of “purpose.” There are many other useful things that might be said to him, but I have come to the end of my article, and can only touch them as I pass. The critic in the Pall Mall Gazette, whom I have already quoted, draws attention to the danger, in speaking of the art of fiction, of generalizing. The danger that he has in mind is rather, I imagine, that of particularizing, for there are some comprehensive remarks which, in addition to those embodied in Mr. Besant’s suggestive lecture, might, without fear of misleading him, be addressed to the ingenuous student. I should remind him first of the magnificence of the form that is open to him, which offers to sight so few restrictions and such innumerable opportunities. The other arts, in comparison, appear confined and hampered; the various conditions under which they are exercised are so rigid and definite. But the only condition that I can think of attaching to the composition of the novel is, as I have already said, that it be interesting. This freedom is a splendid privilege, and the first lesson of the young novelist is to learn to be worthy of it. “Enjoy it as it deserves,” I should say to him; “take possession of it, explore it to its utmost extent, reveal it, rejoice in it. All life belongs to you, and don’t listen either to those who would shut you up into corners of it and tell you that it is only here and there that art inhabits, or to those who would persuade you that this heavenly messenger wings her way outside of life altogether, breathing a superfine air and turning away her head from the truth of things. There is no impression of life, no manner of seeing it and feeling it, to which the plan of the novelist may not offer a place; you have only to remember that talents so dissimilar as those of Alexandre Dumas and Jane Austen, Charles Dickens and Gustave Flaubert, have worked in this field with equal glory. Don’t think too much about optimism and pessimism; try and catch the colour of life itself. In France to-day we see a prodigious effort (that of Emile Zola, to whose solid and serious work no explorer of the capacity of the novel can allude without respect), we see an extraordinary effort vitiated by a spirit of pessimism on a narrow basis. M. Zola is magnificent, but he strikes an English reader as ignorant; he has an air of working in the dark; if he had as much light as energy his results would be of the highest value. As for the aberrations of a shallow optimism, the ground (of English fiction especially) is strewn with their brittle particles as with broken glass. If you must indulge in conclusions let them have the taste of a wide knowledge. Remember that your first duty is to be as complete as possible-to make as perfect a work. Be generous and delicate, and then, in the vulgar phrase, go in!”

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Advice on Reading the Ancient Classics by Henry David Thoreau http://www.everywritersresource.com/advice-on-reading-the-ancient-classics-by-henry-david-thoreau/ http://www.everywritersresource.com/advice-on-reading-the-ancient-classics-by-henry-david-thoreau/#respond Thu, 01 Jun 2017 18:50:19 +0000 http://www.everywritersresource.com/writingsense/?p=487 The student may read Homer or Æschylus in the Greek without danger of dissipation or luxuriousness, for it implies that he in some measure emulates their heroes, and consecrates morning hours to their pages. The heroic books, even if printed in the character of our mother tongue, will always be in a language dead to...

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falloftroyThe student may read Homer or Æschylus in the Greek without danger of dissipation or luxuriousness, for it implies that he in some measure emulates their heroes, and consecrates morning hours to their pages. The heroic books, even if printed in the character of our mother tongue, will always be in a language dead to degenerate times; and we must laboriously seek the meaning of each word and line, conjecturing a larger sense than common use permits out of that wisdom and valor and generosity we have. The modern cheap and fertile press, with all its translations, has done little to bring us nearer to the heroic writers of antiquity. They seem as solitary, and the letter in which they are printed as rare and curious as ever. It is worth the expense of youthful days and costly hours, if you learn only some words of an ancient language, which are raised out of the trivialness of the street, to be perpetual suggestions and provocation. It is not in vain that the farmer remembers and repeats the few Latin words which he has heard. Men sometimes speak as if the study of the classics would at length make way for more modern and practical studies; but the adventurous student will always study classics, in whatever language they may be written and however ancient they may be. For what are the classics but the noblest recorded thoughts of man? They are the only oracles which are not decayed, and there are such answers to the most modern inquiry in them as Delphi and Dodona never gave. We might as well omit to study Nature because she is old.

To read well, that is, to read true books in a true spirit, is a noble exercise, and one that will tax the reader more than any exercise which the customs of the day esteem. It requires a training such as the athletes underwent, the steady intention almost of the whole life to this object. Books must be read as deliberately and reservedly as they were written. It is not enough even to be able to speak the language of that nation by which they are written, for there is a memorable interval between the spoken and the written language, the language heard and the language read. The one is commonly transitory, a sound, a tongue, a dialect merely, almost brutish, and we learn it unconsciously, like the brutes, of our mothers. The other is the maturity and experience of that; if that is our mother tongue, this is our father tongue, a reserved and select expression, too significant to be heard by the ear, which we must be born again in order to speak.

The crowds of men who merely spoke the Greek and Latin tongues in the Middle Ages were not entitled by the accident of birth to read the works of genius written in those languages; for these were not written in that Greek or Latin which they knew, but in the select language of literature. They had not learned the nobler dialects of Greece and Rome, but the very materials on which they were written were waste paper to them, and they prized instead a cheap contemporary literature. But when the several nations of Europe had acquired distinct tho rude written languages of their own, sufficient for the purposes of their rising literatures, then first learning revived, and scholars were enabled to discern from that remoteness the treasures of antiquity. What the Roman and Grecian multitude could not hear, after the lapse of ages a few scholars read, and a few scholars only are still reading it.

homerHowever much we may admire the orator’s occasional bursts of eloquence, the noblest written words are commonly as far behind or above the fleeting spoken language as the firmament with its stars is behind the clouds. There are the stars, and they who can may read them. The astronomers forever comment on and observe them. They are not exhalations like our daily colloquies and vaporous breath. What is called eloquence in the forum is commonly found to be rhetoric in the study. The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient occasion, and speaks to the mob before him, to those who can hear him; but the writer, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would be distracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks to the intellect and heart of mankind, to all in any age who can understand him.

No wonder that Alexander carried the Iliad with him on his expeditions in a precious casket. A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but actually breathed from all human lips; not be represented on canvas or in marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself. The symbol of an ancient man’s thought becomes a modern man’s speech. Two thousand summers have imparted to the monuments of Grecian literature, as to her marbles, only a maturer golden and autumnal tint, for they have carried their own serene and celestial atmosphere into all lands to protect them against the corrosion of time. Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of generations and nations. Books, the oldest and the best, stand naturally and rightfully on the shelves of every cottage. They have no cause of their own to plead, but while they enlighten and sustain the reader his common sense will not refuse them. Their authors are a natural and irresistible aristocracy in every society, and, more than kings or emperors, exert an influence on mankind. When the illiterate and perhaps scornful trader has earned by enterprise and industry his coveted leisure and independence, and is admitted to the circles of wealth and fashion, he turns inevitably at last to those still higher but yet inaccessible circles of intellect and genius, and is sensible only of the imperfection of his culture, and the vanity and insufficiency of all his riches, and further proves his good sense by the pains which he takes to secure for his children that intellectual culture whose want he so keenly feels; and thus it is that he becomes the founder of a family.

Those who have not learned to read the ancient classics in the language in which they were written must have a very imperfect knowledge of the history of the human race; for it is remarkable that no transcript of them has ever been made into any modern tongue, unless our civilization itself may be regarded as such a transcript. Homer has never yet been printed in English, nor Æschylus, nor Virgil even—works as refined, as solidly done, and as beautiful almost as the morning itself; for later writers, say what we will of their genius, have rarely, if ever, equaled the elaborate beauty and finish and the lifelong and heroic literary labors of the ancients. They only talk of forgetting them who never knew them. It will be soon enough to forget them when we have the learning and the genius which will enable us to attend to and appreciate them. That age will be rich, indeed, when those relics which we call classics, and the still older and more than classic but even less known scriptures of the nations, shall have still further accumulated, when the Vaticans shall be filled with Vedas and Zendavestas and Bibles, with Homers and Dantes and Shakespeares, and all the centuries to come shall have successively deposited their trophies in the forum of the world. By such a pile we may hope to scale heaven at last.

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Writing a Cover Letter on Your Novel Submission http://www.everywritersresource.com/writing-a-cover-letter-on-your-novel-submission/ http://www.everywritersresource.com/writing-a-cover-letter-on-your-novel-submission/#respond Wed, 31 May 2017 02:36:48 +0000 http://www.everywritersresource.com/?p=8289 Writing a Cover Letter on Your Novel Submission Every writer knows the success comes with the first published book. Till that time, you are only one of those amateurs who are looking for the

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Writing a Cover Letter on Your Novel Submission

Writing a Cover Letter on Your Novel Submission

Every writer knows the success comes with the first published book. Till that time, you are only one of those amateurs who are looking for the possibilities to join the community of professional writers. Of course, publishing a book is an important though not the most difficult step. First and foremost, you must write a novel. Here, we do not even need to tell that this novel should be good enough to deserve to be published as there are too many bad stories already and you should not become one of those who are famous for their poor writing. We do not need to tell that sometimes you need to make some investments to publish your novel. And we also do not need to tell about a huge PR campaign that you will need if you publish the book. We are going to talk about writing a cover letter on your novel submission to get better chances of publishing your novel for free and finding a sponsor who will pay for all PR and marketing.

Three questions to be answered

There are many approaches to writing a novel cover letter for publishers, but we believe that there are actually three things that you should ask yourself before you start to write a letter and after you have already written it (just in case you missed something). The questions are:

  • Clarify the main point. Ask whether a publisher is ready to consider the opportunity to cooperate with young writers that have already written some novels and are ready to publish them.
  • State the points why exactly a publisher needs to cooperate with you. Use all benefits that you have, otherwise, you may lose your chance to make a step forward in the career of a professional writer.
  • Tell why readers would love this novel. A publisher does not want to just reveal new names, they want to be sure that cooperation with new authors will bring them some income.

Remember that you should always stick to the point and demonstrate real advantages of working with you. So, never use some vague phrases like ‘I believe everyone will love this book’ or ‘You should read it because it’s great’. Do not hesitate to reveal the plot and tell what materials you have used for writing it. Any publisher wants to know that although you are an amateur, you take writing seriously.

Never rush

Many writers think that cover letter is not so important as any publisher should feel with all their vibes that you have sent them the perfect novel. But this is not true. Writing a cover letter is a huge responsibility and you should never be in a hurry when writing it. First, you should think about the questions that we have mentioned above. When you get the answers, you need to create a good structure for your cover letter.

Unfortunately, there is no template that you may fill and get an effective letter. You should do everything by yourself. However, it will be easy for you as a writer as you know how to present information in such a way so as to persuade your readers to do something.

When we are talking about no rush we mean that you need at least a week or two to think over your cover letter and find proper words to reach the reader. It is just like if you have been assigned your first term paper at the college and you need some time to do a research on what is a good essay and how to write it properly.

Add your personal touch

A cover letter, though a formal type of writing, still should never be too official and impersonal. Remember that a writer is not someone behind the scenes of the book. Today, people are interested in the personality of writers, thus, they always check their biographies and try to find some interesting facts and ideas. The same is with publishers. They want to cooperate with writers who write good books and who can express their unusual approach to life or some life aspects in brief words in a cover letter.

Do remember that writing a cover letter on your novel submission is the fastest and the most effective way to reach the publishers and show to them that they must work with you if they do not want to lose huge sums of money. With this letter, you create the first impressions, and you will never get the second chance to do that. That’s why you must:

  • never be in a hurry and take enough time to think over your letter, write it, and edit it;
  • show the benefits of working with you;
  • be personal and express your inner world.

We believe that our brief guide will be useful for your while writing a cover letter. Hope to see your books published soon!

Author’s Bio:

Kevin Nelson started his career as a research analyst and has changed his sphere of activity to writing services and content marketing. Apart from writing, he spends a lot of time reading psychology and management literature searching for the keystones of motivation ideas. Feel free to connect with him on Facebook, Twitter, Linkedin & Google+.

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Word Search for Writers (Mondays) http://www.everywritersresource.com/word-search-writers-mondays/ http://www.everywritersresource.com/word-search-writers-mondays/#comments Wed, 24 May 2017 01:57:21 +0000 http://www.everywritersresource.com/writingsense/?p=4365 Many respectable news and literary publications have crosswords or word searches, so we thought we could run a weekly Word Search for writers. On Mondays we will run one of these. If you find all the words, post a comment below. Not all of these will be this easy, but they will all have something...

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Word Search for Writers

Many respectable news and literary publications have crosswords or word searches, so we thought we could run a weekly Word Search for writers. On Mondays we will run one of these. If you find all the words, post a comment below. Not all of these will be this easy, but they will all have something to do with writing. This week we have 10 names from famous poets writing today (or very recently). We hope you know all of them and recommend looking them up if you draw a blank.  Make sure you stop back next week for the answers and for a new search. To use this word search click the first letter of the word (if you can find one) hold the mouse button and highlight all the letters in the word.

This is has slowly become a tradition of Every Writer. If you do this puzzle often, please leave us a comment. I’m getting emails saying they love this search and do it every time we have a new one, so sign the page as well as let us know when you have solved the puzzle.

We are now on our 3rd year of this word search for writers. We started publishing this page in July 0f 2014. I can’t believe it’s been that long! To that end, could you please suggest some word searches please. I ran out of ideas a long time ago. Sometimes I don’t republish this page with a new wordsearch because I can’t think of anything. So leave that in the comments too.

Lastly, remember, we always have work related stuff going on around our site. These word searches are distractions, but when you are ready to get back to writing, please visit Every Writer.


This week we are doing a summer wordsearch. All these words, if you are like me, will make you so so happy. They are the heart of summer. Summer, for me, as a writer, is a time to relax! Much needed.

Hidden Words

Puzzles by mypuzzle.org

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Poem: Peer Review, Curfew by Peer Reivew, Curfew by Shelia Murphy http://www.everywritersresource.com/poemeveryday/%EF%BB%BFpeer-review-curfew-peer-reivew-curfew-shelia-murphy/ http://www.everywritersresource.com/poemeveryday/%EF%BB%BFpeer-review-curfew-peer-reivew-curfew-shelia-murphy/#respond Wed, 24 May 2017 01:56:05 +0000 http://www.everywritersresource.com/?p=8054 The post Poem: Peer Review, Curfew by Peer Reivew, Curfew by Shelia Murphy appeared first on Every Writer.

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