ere are some who understand that an author cannot write
continuously any more than a spider or a silkworm can spin all the
time. These people ask me when, and where, and how, I get my
material.

"Getting material" is supposed to be a secret process, and I am
thought a gay deceiver when I say I make no particular effort to get
it--that it comes in the daily living--like the morning cream! I am
then asked if I rely wholly upon "inspiration." I answer that
"inspiration" doubtless has its value as well as hard work, and that
the author who would derive all possible benefit from the rare flashes
of it must have the same command of technique that a good workman has
of his tools.

The majority learn with surprise that there is more to a book than is
self-evident. It was once my happy lot to put this fact into the
understanding of a lady from the country.

With infinite pains I told her of the constant study of words,
illustrated the fine shades of distinction between synonyms, spoke of
the different ways in which characters and events might be introduced,
and of the subordinate repetition of contrasting themes. She listened
in breathless wonder, and then turned to her daughter: "There, Mame,"
she said, "I told you there was something in it!"

There is nothing so pathetic as the widespread literary ambition among
people whose future is utterly hopeless. It is sad enough for one who
has attained a small success to see the heights which are ever beyond,
and it makes one gentle indeed to those who come seeking aid.

One ambitious soul once asked me if I would teach her to write. I
replied that I did not know of any way in which it could be taught,
but that I would gladly help her if I could. She said she had
absolutely no imagination, and asked me if that would make any
difference. I told her it was certainly an unfortunate circumstance
and advised her to cultivate that quality before she attempted
extensive writing. I suppose she is still doing it, for I have not
been asked for further assistance.

People often inquire what qualities I deem essential to literary
success. Imagination is, of course, the first, observation, the
second, and ambition, perseverance and executive ability are
indispensable. Besides these I would place the sense of humour, of
proportion, sympathy, insight,--indeed, there is nothing admirable in
human nature which would come amiss in the equipment of a writer.

The necessity for the humourous sens