Of all the advice that the greatest writers have given throughout the years to all of us who want to write perhaps the one that inspires me and that I treasure the most is the letter that John Steinbeck wrote in 1963. I fell in love with Steinbeck and his stories at a very young age. In fact it was his story The Pearl that did it for me. The first time I read it was when I was in fourth grade and ever since then it has not failed to stir my emotions the same way it did when I was just a little girl. He lived and worked with words and as a result he wrote the following.
Although it must be a thousand years ago that I sat in a class story writing at Stanford, I remember the experience very clearly. I was bright-eyed and bushy-brained and prepared to absorb the secret formula for writing good short stories, even great short stories. This illusion was canceled very quickly. The only way to write a good short story, we were told, is to write a good short story. Only after it is written can it be taken apart to see how it was done. It is a most difficult form, as we were told, and the proof lies in how very few great short stories are in the world.
The basic rule given us was simple and heartbreaking. A story to be effective had to convey something from writer to reader, and the power of its offering was the measures of its excellence. Outside of that, there were no rules. A story could be about anything and could use any means and any technique at all- so long as it was effective. As a subhead to this rule, it seemed to be necessary for the writer to know what he wanted to say, in short, what he was talking about. As an exercise we were to try reducing the meat of our story to one sentence, for only then could we know it well enough to enlarge it to three or six- or ten-thousand words.
So there went the magic formula, the secret ingredient. With no more than that, we were set on the desolate, lonely path of the writer. And we must have turned in some abysmally bad stories. If I had expected to be discovered in a full bloom of excellence, the grades given my efforts quickly disillusioned me. And if I felt unjustly criticized, the judgments of editors for many years afterward upheld my teacher’s side, not mine. The low grades on my college stories were echoed in the rejection slips, in the hundreds of rejection slips.
It seemed unfair. I could read a fine story and could even know how it was done. Why could I then not do it myself? Well, I couldn’t, and maybe it’s because no two stories dare to be alike. Over the years I have written a great many stories and I still don’t know how to go about it except to write it and take my chances.
If there is magic in story writing, and I am convinced that there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another. The formula seems to lie solely in the aching urge of the writer to convey something he feels important to the reader. If the writer has the urge, he may sometimes, but by no means always, find the way to do it. You must perceive the excellence that makes a good story good or the errors that make a bad story. For a bad story is only an ineffective story.
It is not very hard to judge a story after it is written, but, after many years, to start a story still scares me to death. I will go so far as to say that the writer who is not scared is happily unaware of the remote and tantalizing majesty of the medium.
I remember one last piece of advice given me. It was during the exuberance of the rich and frantic ’20s, and I was going out into that world to try to be a writer.
I was told, “It’s going to take a long time, and you haven’t got any money. Maybe it would be better if you go to Europe.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because in Europe poverty is a misfortune, but in America it is shameful. I wonder whether or not you can stand the shame of being poor.”
It wasn’t too long afterward that the depression came down. Then everyone was poor and it was no shame any more. And so I will never know whether or not I could have stood it. But surely my teacher was right about one thing. It took a long time- a very long time. And it is still going on, and it has never got easier.
She told me it wouldn’t.”