The Editor's Relations with the Young Contributor (from Literature and Life) — Story, Setting & Ideas

The Editor as First Reader

Howells insists that the editor is the young contributor's most appreciative audience, often feeling delight more keenly than the public. He describes the editor's joy masked by a "short, stiff note of acceptance" or a "check of slender figure," yet assures that merit is never missed. This section reframes the editor not as an adversary but as a hopeful ally, eager to discover talent. The contributor's acceptance is a token of a lasting relationship: even failures will be treated leniently before the editor finally forsakes the writer. Howells grounds this in his own experience, noting that after decades of writing, an author's works carry "wonted traits" that cannot charm anew, making the newcomer essential.

The Pitfall of Hollow Imitation

Howells warns against the young contributor who has nothing to say but tries to mimic style, producing a "vain hope" that collapses at the editor's first glance. The remedy is to write about something one truly knows and loves. He advises a periodic halt to check for clarity and simplicity, but cautions against aiming for mere succinctness, which he calls "a kind of quackery." The life goes out of a subject when brevity is forced. Instead, the writer should please himself honestly and thoroughly—"the only way to please others in matters of art." This principle, he argues, applies across all creative work, from poetry to ditch-digging, if done with conscience and a sense of beauty.

Testing Work by Personal Delight

Howells offers a practical test: did the work give the writer pleasure? Was he glad and willing, or did it hang heavy? He calls this a "rule that is pretty infallible" and insists it is a matter of plain, everyday experience. If no delight arises, the writer may give up—or wait for a better mood and try again. The difficulty may stem from not yet knowing how to do it well, but learning is possible. Howells demystifies artistic creation, presenting it as a process of overcoming unexpected difficulties rather than wielding sovereign power. Each new piece requires "the invention of new formulas," and mastery is always a fresh victory, never a dominion over past obstacles.

No Royal Road, but a Country Path

Howells dismisses the idea of a royal road to literary excellence, noting that kings are "mostly dull fellows" who miss the simple joys of the journey. The traveller on the country road moves slowly enough to learn every detail of the landscape by heart. Success, he implies, can be a trap, making one complacent. The essay's closing advice is to embrace the slow, attentive path, where the writer can stop for the wildflower and the spring. This metaphor reinforces the value of patience and observation over shortcuts. Howells's tone remains conversational, as if speaking directly to a young aspirant, urging them to find satisfaction in the process itself rather than in external rewards.

Howells's essay rewards readers who attend to its layered ironies: he is an established author advising beginners, yet he insists that every new work demands fresh apprenticeship. His advice is practical but not prescriptive—he offers no formulas, only a stance of honest self-examination. The essay is best read as a companion to one's own writing practice, testing each paragraph against Howells's question: did it give you pleasure?

I remembered sitting on my grandfather’s porch, a stack of his old magazines beside me, wondering if my own scribbled stories would ever find a home. Howells’s gentle insistence on sincerity felt like a hand on my shoulder. That same quiet permission to simply write for myself surfaced later in Essays and soliloquies — Text and Context, a companion in solitude.