WRITING A BOOK.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXV, Issue 20028, 18 August 1928, Page 1 (Supplement)

WRITING A BOOK.

BY , ELSIE K. MORTON*.

MY MAGNUM OPUS.

" Why don't you write a book ? " For fifteen years I have been, racking my brains to find a satisfactory answer to t hat question, asked by many friends known and unknown. I used to try to explain, with perfect sincerity, that I didn't feci capable of writing a book, that one had to have very special qualifications for that high form of literary activity, a gift for character delineation, a dramatic sense, knowledge of construction, a . . . "Pooh! Nonsense!" was the usual form of reply. " You could do it all right. Look at the stuff that gets printed!" But that wasn't exactly the kind of encouragement I needed. "Do you think," I asked one candid friend, " that anybody would buy my book if I did write one ? " " Why, of course, if So-and-so can write books and make a living, surely you can. It doesn't matter much what you write about, but you ought to start at once, before people forget you." That startled me. I seemed to feel Time whizzing past my ears, flourishing his scythe at me. Perhaps it was too late already! Panic seized upon me—--1" had better start at once, that very night, before I sank into oblivion. I bought a large exercise book, refused an invitation to the Philistines, and went home to write my book. The family, feeling something big was in the air, wound the clock, turned out the cat, and retired early, leaving me in possession of the dining room. I opened the exercise book, and wrote " MY BOOK " on the front page, in fair, firm hand, with name and dato beneath. Ono cannot be too particular about trifles in great undertakings. ... I drew a few comely flourishes around the heading, a sketch or two in the margin . . . some day, that simple exercise book might—well, stranger things have happened! I mused happily on the thought. It was beautifully quiet, just the atmosphere for meditation, warmish, with that slight aroma of apples and newspapers that clings so steadfastly to dining rooms. It was splendid to think I was really going to begin my book at last, llow delighted B-B would be to know —what a beautiful letter the dear girl had written from Sydney, and I, negligent wretch, had never even answered it! Perhaps she, too, would soon forget me! Conscience smote me; now was the time! I seized a writing pad and wrote a wonderful letter, pages and pages, told her all about my book, and asked for suggestions as to title, promising to send details of plot and characters when I had thought things out a little more fully. In Search of Inspiration.

The clock struck ten—time to get to work! Now, what kind of story was it to be, a thriller, love and life in the backblocks, a book with a purpose, or one of those simple little masterpieces like " The Roadmender," that move all hearts to tears' All, an inspiration! I had already jotted down something in " The Roadmender" style, if only X could lay my hand on it. I would get it—splendid idea —I could feel inspiration surging all through me, oozing at the finger-tips, as I hastened to my room and pulled out a drawer crammed full of cuttings and bulky notebooks, all containing inspirational ideas for my Magnum Opus. Not there. Perhaps it was in the other drawer. . . I staggered back into the dining room with both drawers, and turned them out on the table. . . I could not find anything about *' The Roadmender," but caino across some really splendid bits about the old Colonists' Museum, recipes for asparagus salad, furniture polish, and a wonderful astringent lotion, and also several excellent jokes I had quite forgotten. . . A weary voice sounded from somewhere down the hall. " Half-past eleven. Aren't you ever going to put out that light?" I hastily swept the intriguing pile aside, and concentrated on the exercise book for an hour. At half-past twelve I threw it sadly into one of the drawers, emptied the waterjug over the embers, and went to bed . . . I began to understand nosv what authors meant when they spoke of the awful blank feeling that comes down over the literary mind like a fog. The Optimist.

Yet the thought of writing a book continued to haunt me. .An unknown gentleman who said he had read the Herald Supplement for twenty years, and had admired my late lamented father's articles immensely called one day at my office to know if I h;id brought out a book, and, if not, when L was going to? 1 told him he was quite mistaken about my " father," who was no connection whatsoever, and that I had no immediate intention of bringing out a book. He continued to call for over a year, however, assuring me always of the remarkable success such a book would be. "llow many copies would you buy ?" I demanded ruUJessly P*ie day, interrupting the measured flow of his peroration. He stopped short, stared at me, and smiled uneasily. "I—l'd —take one," lie stammered nervously. "if it wasn't too expensive!" I have always felt quite sure it would have been. —he never came again. Genius in the Bud. Yet people do write books and get them published, and presumably they sell copies now and then, else why should they keep on writing? But how do they start ? I pondered long on that point. "How did you start ?" I one day asked a friend who has written a number of books. "Just suddenly, or were you always keen 011 writing?" She admitted it, adding that her first story had been written at the tender ago of five, and that a dramatic ode, tossed off at the age of twelve, had not only been published, but paid for! There was genius in the bud, if you like! I tried hard to think back to my own tender years, and at last unearthed an ancient diary. That would show! Yes, there it was, my very earliest literary effort, an entry marked, " June, 1899," in scrawling, childish hand. " I had toothache to-day Stayed home from school and had a swing in the hammock. Mother washed my head and I painted a little picture of Rangitoto on a duck's egg. In the afternoon went over to North Shore to see old Mrs. B. She sent me home without a scrap of food. Had a game of cricket in I lie Domain with the boys after tea. Percy picked some prickly pears, and we all got them in our mouth." A day of varied interests, but literary talent . . . alas, alas! Ah, well! Some day when I am quite old, when life has ceased calling, and there is nothing left for me to do, 1 shall take every bulging notebook, all the thousands of odd scraps of paper scribbled with " ideas" and• inspirations gone cold, every hoarded letter and cutting, and I shall tip the whole lot into the dining room fire! . . . . Then I shall take out my exercise book ouce more, and write my Magnum Opus, the Story of the Book that I Have Never Written And by that time, of course, everyone will have forgotten mo completely!