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Elisha Cuthbert Photos Books: Martin Eden The Pickwick Papers The Sea Wolf |
books at the least possible expense of time. And hardest of
all was it to shut up the algebra or physics, put note-book and pencil
aside, and close his tired eyes in sleep. He hated the thought of
ceasing to live, even for so short a time, and his sole consolation was
that the alarm clock was set five hours ahead. He would lose only five
hours anyway, and then the jangling bell would jerk him out of
unconsciousness and he would have before him another glorious day of
nineteen hours.
In the meantime the weeks were passing, his money was ebbing low, and
there was no money coming in. A month after he had mailed it, the
adventure serial for boys was returned to him by The Youths Companion.
The rejection slip was so tactfully worded that he felt kindly toward the
editor. But he did not feel so kindly toward the editor of the San
Francisco Examiner. After waiting two whole weeks, Martin had written to
him. A week later he wrote again. At the end of the month, he went over
to San Francisco and personally called upon the editor. But he did not
meet that exalted personage, thanks to a Cerberus of an office boy, of
tender years and red hair, who guarded the portals. At the end of the
fifth week the manuscript came back to him, by mail, without comment.
There was no rejection slip, no explanation, nothing. In the same way
his other articles were tied up with the other leading San Francisco
papers. When he recovered them, he sent them to the magazines in the
East, from which they were returned more promptly, accompanied always by
the printed rejection slips.
The short stories were returned in similar fashion. He read them over
and over, and liked them so much that he could not puzzle out the cause
of their rejection, until, one day, he read in a newspaper that
manuscripts should always be typewritten. That explained it. Of course
editors were so busy that they could not afford the time and strain of
reading handwriting. Martin rented a typewriter and spent a day
mastering the machine. Each day he typed what he composed, and he typed
his earlier manuscripts as fast as they were returned him. He was
surprised when the typed ones began to come back. His jaw seemed to
become squarer, his chin more aggressive, and he bundled the manuscripts
off to new editors.
The thought came to him that he was not a good judge of his own work. He
tried it out on Gertrude. He read his stories aloud to her. Her eyes
glistened, and she looked at him proudly as she said:-
"Aint it grand, you writin those sort of things."
"Yes, yes," he demanded impatiently. "But the story--how did you like
it?"
"Just grand," was the reply. "Just grand, an thrilling, too. I was all
worked up."
He could see that her mind was not clear. The perplexity was strong in
her good-natured face. So he waited.
"But, say, Mart," after a long pause, "how did it end? Did that young
man who spoke so highfalutin get her?"
And, after he had explained the end, which he thought he had made
artistically obvious, she would say:-
"Thats what I wanted to know. Why didnt you write that way in the
story?"
One thing he learned, after he had read her a number of stories, namely,
that she liked happy endings.
"That story was perfectly grand," she announced, straightening up from
the wash-tub with a tired sigh and wiping the sweat from her forehead
with a red, steamy hand; "but it makes me sad. I want to cry. There is
too many sad things in the world anyway. It makes me happy to think
about happy things. Now if hed married her, and--You dont mind, Mart?"
she queried apprehensively. "I just happen to feel that way, because Im
tired, I guess. But the story was grand just the same, perfectly grand.
Where are you goin to sell it?"
"Thats a horse of another color," he laughed.
"But if you _did_ sell it, what do you think youd get for it?"
"Oh, a hundred dollars. That would be the least, the way prices go."
"My! I do hope youll sell it!"
"Easy money, eh?" Then Martin Eden page 44 Martin Eden page 46 |