August 16, 1935-Discovered: Where The Nation’s Magazine Pieces Originated
The Washington Daily News—Friday—August 16,—1935
Discovered: Where The Nation’s Magazine Pieces Originated
By Ernie Pyle
ON A CONNECTICUT FARM– I have just spent the night at the bedside of a magazine article– even did a little to help bring it into the world.
Now I know where the nation’s magazine pieces come from– they come out of these Connecticut woods, and the clammy night air is shrill with the moans and tortures of the damned as the reluctant minds of authors writhe and give forth their phrases.
Last night I drove up about dusk. Like many “farms” on the south shore of Connecticut it is inhabited not by farmers, but by literary folk who seek the solitude of the woods.
My friend, the writer, said after a while:
“First, I want to get your bags upstairs, and then I’ll break the sad news– I’ve got to work all night!”
And work all night he did. Not only he, but his wife too, helping him. And even his guests pattered around thru the house all night trying to lend a hand.
FINE SCRIBBLER IS HE
My writing friend is one of the country’s best scribblers, and is rapidly becoming one of the best known. But he’d rather be shot than write a piece. It is absolute torture for him. He puts it off till the very last minute any writing job he has to do.
And so it was with this article– an article, incidentally, that has already had national publicity and which you will likely be reading in the magazines in a few days now. He had already done considerable work on it, but it was a rather difficult piece to write, and time had slipped by and the piece wasn’t done, or anywhere near done.
The deadline was five days past. This especial day, the magazine editor had called four times on long distance from New York– they were holding the presses– where is that piece?-- It’s got to be here in an hour– at least by this evening– under no circumstances later than tomorrow noon.
So at 8 in the evening my friend started on his final nights work. He cussed and he groaned and he sat staring at the wall and he smoked packs and packs of cigarets and he walked up and down stairs and out in the yard and then back to his machine to type and grunt.
THE MILL IN ACTION
And as the pages rolled, oh so bitterly, out of the typewriter, his wife took the chicken-tracked sheets, went downstairs to her typewriter, deciphered them and then copied them into final clean form.
Hour after hour went by. At midnight they were getting along toward the end. Spirits rose with each word. And then came the discovery. The article had run 2000 words too long.
Now, cutting 2000 words out of an 8000-word article, every line of which has been written with blood, is no little job. It meant the thing had to be rewritten!
So at midnight they started all over again. Every word of the original that had to come out was like pulling a tooth. My friend the writer wrote, and sat and thought, and cussed and smoked. His wife suggested, and copied, and brought coffee. The guests edited, and slept a little, and walked up and down sympathetically. The anguished hours crawled toward dawn.
LITERARY INTOXICATION
It was not yet quite daylight when my friend’s wife, drunk with literature, gave up and crawled into bed for a few minutes, with all her clothes on.
..My friend the writer has a couch in his study, and at 4:30 it hypnotized him, and he was asleep. But not for long. An hour after daylight they were both up and at it again, with coffee by their typewriters, and eyes slightly fresher. And by 9 a.m., miracle of miracles, the piece was finished.
And that is the way literature is born. Like most good things, it comes hard. There may be some authors whom the muse has touched so generously that words flow out of them pleasantly and swiftly and without effort, but they are few indeed.
One not acquainted with these things might feel that anything done so laboriously could not be done well. But that is not true. I have just read my friend’s piece in final form, and it is one of the best he has ever done.
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