Produced by Daniel Fromont
[Transcriber's note: Mrs. Hungerford (Margaret Wolfe Hamilton)(1855?-1897) "How I write my novels" (from Mrs Hungerford'sAn anxious moment pp. 275-282)]
To sit down in cold blood and deliberately set to cudgel one's brainswith a view to dragging from them a plot wherewith to make a book is (Ihave been told) the habit of some writers, and those of no smallreputation. Happy people! What powers of concentration must be theirs!What a belief in themselves—that most desirable of all beliefs, thatsweet propeller toward the temple of fame. Have faith in yourself, andall me, will have faith in you.
But as for me, I have to lie awake o'nights longing and hoping forinspirations that oft-times are slow to come. But when they do come,what a delight! All at once, in a flash, as it were, the whole storylies open before me—a delicate diorama, vague here and there, butwith a beginning and an end—clear as crystal. I can never tell whenthese inspirations may be coming; sometimes in the dark watches of thenight; sometimes when driving through the crisp, sweet air; sometimes aword in a crowded drawing-room, a thought rising from the book in hand,sends them with a rush to the surface, where they are seized andbrought to land, and carried home in triumph. After that the 'dressing'of them is simple enough.
But just in the beginning it was not so simple. Alas! for that firststory of mine—the raven I sent you of my ark and never saw again.Unlike the proverbial curse, it did not come home to roost; it stayedwhere I had sent it. The only thing I ever heard of it again was apolite letter from the editor in whose office it lay, telling me Icould have it back if I enclosed stamps to the amount of twopencehalfpenny, otherwise he should feel it his unpleasant duty to 'consignit to the waste-paper basket'. I was only sixteen then, and it is avery long time ago; but I have always hated the words 'waste paper'ever since. I don't remember that I was either angry or indignant, butI do remember that I was both sad and sorry. At all events, I neversent that miserable twopence halfpenny, so I conclude my firstmanuscript went to light the fire of that heartless editor.
So much comfort I may have bestowed on him, but he left me comfortless;and yet who can say what good he may not have done me? Paths made toosmooth leave the feet unprepared for rougher roads. To step always inthe primrose way is death to the higher desires. Yet oh, for the hoursI spent over that poor rejected story, beautifying it (as I fondly, iferroneously, believed), adding a word here, a sentiment there! Soconscientiously minded was I, that even the headings of the chapterswere scraps of poetry (so called) done all by myself. Well, never mind.I was very young then, and, as they say upon the stage, I 'meant well'.
For a long twelvemonth after that I never dreamed of putting pen topaper. I had given myself up, as it were. I was the most modest ofchildren, and fully decided within myself that a man so clever as areal live editor must needs be could not have been mistaken. He hadseen and judged, and practically told me that writing was not my forte.
Yet the inevitable hour came round once more. Once again an idea caughtme, held me, persuaded me that I could put it into words. I struggledwith it this time, but it was too strong for me; and that earlyexhilarating certainty that there was 'something in me', as people say,was once more mine, and seizing my pen, I sat down and wrote, wrote,wrote, until the idea was an object formed.
With closed doors I wrote at stolen moments. I had not forgotten thequips and cranks uttere