By Captain John C. Kofoed. Published in August, 1944 issue of Writer's Digest. Extensive research discovered no indication that copyright was renewed.

Perhaps fifteen years ago, I met Theodore Dreiser for the first time.

Some of his friends took me to the gorgeous apartment he then occupied on 57th Street in New York City. An artist had made an elaborate book of drawings of characters from Dreiser's novels, and the great man was thoroughly entranced with them. He thumbed over the pages, and discussed cach portrait in detail.

After a bit the impression grew upon me that the men and women from "An American Tragedy" and "Sister Carrie" and other of Dreiser's works were not figments of the imagination to him. They were living, breathing people, and he talked about them as though they were as real as we who stood about him. At the moment it seems to me that this was a queer sort of conceit, a strange affectation. Then I realized it wasn't conceit at all. Dreiser lived with his characters as he created them. They did not come to life in stories that had been easily, or carelessly tossed off. As the years passed, and Dreiser grew older, the people of his pages grew even more real to him.

The old master is pretty generally conceded to be a genius, and students of literature believe his books will live through the ages. Art, they say, comes out of suffering, and, perhaps, because I haven't suffered too much, I have never written anything that will live in the future, though sometime I hope to be able to.

What I have to say here may sound a little flippant, but I have never been able to look on writing as one of the holy mysteries… and writers as people who have been set apart by God. Most of them are as you and I, folks who write because we want to do that more than anything else in the world, and have a slight flair for words, as others have for mechanics or mathematics or chemistry.

It may be that the great works have been written only in misery and turmoil, but I can't entirely believe that. Happiness is, or should be, as fundamental a part of human life as wretchedness, and it is conceivable that fine novels can be written while a man has laughter on his lips, rather than tears in his eyes.

Though, perhaps, I take my work more lightly than most, I am like more famous authors in one respect. As a newspaper columnist, I received thousands of letters. Those that praised me made the day happier; those that condemned were like clouds in the sky. And, when each of the four books I have written appeared on the stalls, I didn't miss a single review the clipping bureau sent in. That either shows pride in my work, or a concern about what people say. Chances are it's a little of each.

I think I may discuss the rather strange profession of writing with some degree of authority, since I have made a pleasant, and not unprofitable, living out of it for a good many years. I have written for the magazines, newspapers, syndicates, book publishers, movies, radio, and even… God help me! the continuity for a comic strip.

I have seen a little of the game from the other side, of the desk, too, having handled several editorial jobs. So far as I am concerned, there never was anything else I wanted to do but write, and after 30 years, there is still nothing that could tempt me away… nothing, that is, except the war, that has brought me, for the second time, into the armed service of my country.

I am strictly an ordinary guy, with no pretense to genius. I have sold stuff to Collier's and the Post and the Cosmopolitan for 20 cents a word, and pulp stories at two cents. Compared with the big shots of this business, I'm only a journeyman, but I've loved every minute. I love to see things, and write about what I see. I'll do that, I think, as long as I live, because I would feel completely lost if I didn't.

Most writers refuse to admit anything like this. They shroud their work with the sombre wrappings of the morgue… drench it with tears of self-pity.

Damon Runyon, whom I have known for 20 years, has gained fame and fortune from his prolific typewriter. He has a home in Miami Beach, another in Saratoga, a penthouse in 57th street, New York, enough money to last him all the days of his life. Damon doesn't have to write for a living any more, but he would be profoundly miserable if, after a night of drinking coffee with the strange characters who hang out at Lindy's, he wasn't able to do a story about them. He has the writer's itch that, once acquired, is seldom lost. Yet, even the dapper and life-loving Mr. Runyon will at times decry his profession as one to be avoided at all costs. He has been known to imply that the game isn't worth the candle, but he doesn't believe it, and, in his more outspoken moments, will admit he is putting on a front.

My very good friend, Eustace L. Adams, is another highly paid author. He lives in a charming home on Palm Island in Miami Beach. He works hard, but picks his working hours. If the sun is warm, and the spirit moves him, he goes fishing, or relaxes high ball in hand, on the lawn overlooking a blue lagoon. At one time he was a "million words a year man" in the pulp field. That sort of production means the expenditure of great physical and nervous effort, but now that he is in the higher brackets, the tenseness of sheer production has been removed.

Nunnally Johnson, who labored with me on the New York Post in the old days, and recently got $3,000 a week as producer for 20th Century-Fox, spent several years as a free lance writer. From eight in the morning until noon he labored over his tremendously funny stories, most of which appeared in the Saturday Evening Post. From noon until he went to bed he played tennis or swam, foregathered with congenial companions, and danced in bistros.

Such lives must seem ideal to anyone, yet the scribblers will protest that writing is a slave's job… that their colored housemen, cutting the grass, the cooks sweating over hot stoves, or even garbage men, live tranquilly in comparison with them. They insist that all the thousands of dollars they collect is poor pay for the soul-wrenching struggle that goes on within them. That is no more or less than bosh and nonsense. They love to write. They wouldn't want to do anything else no matter what the honorarium. It is something of a pose on their part… a not unpleasant pose, but a pose just the same.

Writing can be fun, or slavery, depending on the temperment. It has been fun for me. Altogether, I have earned some $300,000 between the period of demobilization after the last war and my commissioning in this one. Compared with the Runyons and Johnsons and the Adamses, I am poorly paid, but $300,000 ain't hay, brother, and in earning it, I have travelled, always at someone else's expense, all over this country, and no small part of Europe. I have had more laughs than any one man is supposed to have, and I have sometimes wondered: whether those laughs were not much better pay than the cash.

Perhaps my attitude is due to the fact that I am an easy going person, who never worries, and dislikes arguments and pointless discussions. I was going to Europe on the Paris one spring, and during a perambulation around the deck a ruddy Englishman dropped into step beside me. After a bit, with a Britisher's insatiable curiosity, he asked me what I did for a living. I said I was a writer.

He stared at me through his monocle. "Rider?" he asked. "Aren't you a bit heavy for a jockey?"

So, I said I was a steeplechase rider, and was going to England to compete in the Grand National. When my wife heard about this, she thought it was awful. From my point of view it was a painless way of escaping a bore. Outside people are indecently curious about your methods.

One of the pleasant things about the sort of life I led before getting back into the service, was the uncertainty of what each day would bring. No author ever failed to keep a weather eye out for the postman, and the slim little envelope that indicated a check in payment for services rendered. There was always a touch of suspense even when a sale was sure. And, there were the uncertainties of assignments to add spice to life.

I recall one occasion when an editor 'phoned at noon, with instructions for me to be on my way to California on a train that left at eight o'clock that evening. I happened to be playing golf, and, not getting home until six, it was something of a scramble to be at the station on time.

Such happenings, to be sure, were not usual, but there were other instances in the daily routine that kept boredom at arm's length.

Bill Lengel, who had been managing editor of Cosmopolitan Magazine in the lush days of Ray Long, and is now supervising editor for Fawcett, called me in one day. He had a stack of papers in front of him. It was data collected by a former commander of the United States Navy, who had become a millionaire dry-dock owner, and the manuscript concerned all the things he believed were wrong with the United States Navy. This was some four years before Pearl Harbor, and criticism was free and untrammeled. I waded through the material.

"What do you think of it?" Lengel asked.

"It's dynamite," I said.

"Would you do a job of ghosting on it?"

"I can't afford to gamble," I said.

"There won't be any gamble," Bill told me. "The man who wrote this wants to set it before the American people. He isn't interested in money. He'll pay you $500 to write the article, and give you half of what is paid for it, if it is sold."

That was Friday afternoon. It had to be a rush job, because the Commander was going abroad the following Tuesday. By Monday morning I had the job done, and went over it with the "author." An hour after our conference, the story was in the hands of the editor of one of America's biggest magazines. By four o'clock in the afternoon a check for several thousand dollars was in my hands. It just happened that the magazine had been looking for that type of article for months. And, incidentally, it was the largest amount I ever made (or ever expect to make) for a week end's work.

The reverse of that happened with another famous and wealthy periodical. It was around the time when Johnny Weissmuller, forsaking his swimming laurels, had become noted as "Tarzan." The editor 'phoned me that he wanted a story under Johnny's by-line… a story about swimming, and its benefits, with nothing said about Hollywood.

Weissmuller was making his debut on the vaudeville stage at the Capitol Theatre in New York. I cornered him in his dressing room, just before the first show. He was nervous as a cat, but agreeable as always. By sheer dint of plugging, I managed to get some material out of him. Next morning I cornered him again at the theatre, where the news-reel people were photographing him with a lot of diving girls. Johnny is probably the most agreeable guy in the world, but he is not the easiest person to interview, particularly when a score of susceptible damsels are trying to catch his attention.

However, I assembled the facts, and wrote the story over the week end. A day or so later I had word from the editor. He had changed his mind. He didn't want anything about swimming, having suddenly become Hollywood conscious. I suggested that, having already worn myself to a nub, I would winnow some movie stuff out of Weissmuller, but he said no, never mind, the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer publicity department had whipped up some pre-fabricated material, and he was going to use that. No check for three days of tough going… not even a thank you. But, that, like the pleasant things, could be written off to experience.

A good many writers I know have every step of a story charted before they start to write it. They believe in planning each step of the way, as completely as a bombing mission is planned prior to the takeoff of the planes. That's not my way. I start with an idea and a set of characters. What happens along the way is strictly between myself and those characters.

One of them may originally be intended only to have a walk-on part. Pretty soon he is in the middle of the stage, with the spotlight on him, and completely upsets the preconceived plot.

I once wrote a novel about a newspaper in the Deep South and a damyankee editor from New York, who was running it, and trying to drive out the city's political boss. Midway of the story, the paper's circulation manager appeared on the scene. He was mousey and nondescript. He had nothing to do, but he began to make himself important. For once in my life I was working from a complete synopsis. I didn't want to change it, but, after butting heads with this nosey character for three or four chapters, I began to see the light. If he interested me that much, he was going to interest other people.

So, I let the plot outline go, and went along with the little circulation manager. It was a bit disconcerting at first, but heartwarming, too, because he lived, and made the scenes live with him.

To my way of thinking, characters are the most important factor of any story. Long after you have forgotten the plot complications of Gone With the Wind you'll remember Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara. You may forget any, or all, of the cases of Sherlock Holmes, but you won't forget Sherlock Holmes, himself. A strong, well-delineated character can carry a thin story, but a pallid set of characters can ruin the most unusual idea in the world.

All of them are adaptations of people you know. The successful writer has not only a mastery of words and story sense, he is a student of human nature. Every person I meet is a potential character for some future tale. They need not be famous or important.

If your characters are attention-arresting you won't have to worry too much about the success of any story you write.

~

It is my feeling that if a person doesn't get pleasure out of his work, he should try something else, and this applies to writing, as well as anything else. It is tough at times, of course. Westbrook Pegler, who labored with me on the New York Post, sometimes struggles for hours with a single paragraph before it comes out just as he wants it. He sweats and curses, but in his own way, he enjoys it. If he could not write… if he could not express the thoughts that crowd up in him… he would be the unhappiest man alive.

This is true of Runyon and Johnson and Adams and all the others as well. And, it isn't only in writing that an enormity of effort goes into the final achievement. Men of science make countless experiments one failure after another until they come upon the formula they are seeking. Men who build bridges and subways and ships face problems that keep them awake night after night, fumbling for methods to solve them. Yet, none I have ever known, pretended to be martyrs merely because of the difficulties that hedged them in. So, why should those who struggle for plot and words?

All this leads up to several points. Don't fall into the conviction that a writer's life is a slavish one, and that only out of misery can you pen anything worth while. Enjoy it. Have fun at it. The bluebird makes as good a subject as the buzzard.

And, if you get fun out of writing, you'll be likely to do more of it. You won't have to drive yourself to your desk—and when you get there, chances are you'll do something people will want to read.

Sweat and tears may be the hallmark of the genius, but most of us don't come under that classification. We can like our work, and get a laugh out of it… and still do more than reasonably well for ourselves.