How to Write an Article for Vanity Fair

Practical Hints for Ambitious Authors

By ONE WHO IS ANONYMOUS

I AM an anonymous author. I do not mean by this that I am the author of everything which bears the signature "anon". But a large part of this literature is mine. In fact, many articles attributed to Philip Guedella, some of Strachey's essays, many of Edna Millay's poems, and most of Benchley's criticisms have been done by me at one time or another. These people produce so much that they are unable to remember it all, and I am able to use their names without detection. More fun! Of course the checks, if any, go to them, which is a disadvantage; but as I am on borrowing terms with them all, it works out. Life is such a give-and-take affair, isn't it?

The reasons for my inviolate anonymity will be obvious after a reading of this article.

Let me say at the outset that I do not propose to suggest in any way the subject matter or style of the article which you, as an Ambitious Author, wish to write. Your subject may be architects or artichokes—both are members of the vegetable kingdom; your style may be that of Edmund Wilson or Ring Lardner; that is your look-out. On this point let me issue a single word of warning. Do not consult the Editor.

Do not, if you would continue to live and have your being, stroll into the Editorial bower and say, "It is a bright, sunny morning. I feel just like writing an article. What shall it be about?"

It will be about all, that's what it will be about.

A Friendly Warning

THE office of Vanity Fair is on the fifteenth floor, and there is a long, straight drop to the court below. Regardless of the building management's request that " Editors will please not throw lighted cigarettes or authors from the windows", I. have seen hapless writers "go down for the last time" under the exact conditions outlined. They make a curious sound on the concrete.

Also, if you value your literary style and point-of-view as something personal and precious, do not present your idea for preliminary review. I have seen sad things happen from a neglect of this warning. I have seen a noted Greek scholar become so bewildered at the suggestions he received, that he hooked-up his essay on The Unfinished Plays of Sophocles with the Vanities of 1923—the idea being, to show the affinity between Orestes and Joe Cook—and finally burst into tears and flee the premises. No, write your article as you, yourself, want it; shake well, deliver, and then go 'way back and sit down.

Now, having delivered the necessary warnings, let me proceed to constructive things. It is not necessary to advise the use of pen, pencil, paper, dictaphone, stenographer or typewriter. All are good if properly used, but these are the mere mechanics of writing. Nor are my remarks intended as a guide for the experienced author, who has already worked out his own method. They are addressed to beginners, outsiders, amateurs, of whom the line is always forming at the left.

To be definite, I must assume a particular type of embryonic author. You are then, let us suppose, a young business man, a lawyer with an established practice, an office, a club, a home, a wife and two children. This specification may be altered to suit individual cases.

Your first thought, after you have decided on your subject and its treatment, will be, "Where shall I write this article?" and your first choice will undoubtedly be your office. Here, you figure, you will have your desk, your mechanical requirements, and the necessary time.

How the Moments Fly

IT would seem obvious to state that you must be inflexibly and entirely "out" to all demands of usual office routine; but ambitious authors invariably overlook this: madness lies in attempting to write without this caution. Secretary Hughes has pointed out that half the time of government officials is wasted in what he calls "unnecessary contacts". Government officials are protected by a network of formalities. All of the time of an ambitious author will go for naught, if he be not specially policed. The evaporation of time is one of the astounding phenomena of modern life.

Assuming, then, that you have issued the strictest warning that you are not to be disturbed under any conditions, we will imagine you comfortable at your task, biting the end of your pencil or drawing cryptic graphs on your paper, ever and anon plunging into the creation of a lucid sentence. At this juncture your telephone will ring. The chances are that you have forgotten to order that turned off; but if you have, it will ring anyway. Sometimes it will be an outside call which, by the diabolism inherent in the system, has worked its way through to your desk. Sometimes it will be a mistake, a ring intended for your partner, which will be accompanied by a plaintive "Excuse it, please!" from the operator, which will soften your heart even as your ideas take flight. Again, it will be a long distance message which no human being can resist. "Albany is calling, sir." "Heavens", you think, "the Governor may want me to take up some special work." You assume your most legal manner, and find that you are the wrong number. In the meantime, authorship has flown out of the window.

Under these conditions, the proper procedure is to sever the telephone's umbilical cord which connects it with the mother-system. There is no other way. Preserve the instrument, as they are hard to get, and it will come in handy later.

Pitfalls on the Starry Path

YOUR next office obstacle will be the telephone operator herself. In the quiet of your phoneless office, you have by this time actually written two pages when she will quietly enter and say, with a fawning look, "Excuse me, sir, but it's your Uncle—the one from Cohoes—lie's taking the eleven o'clock train, and—"

"Did you tell him I was in?" you demand.

"Well, sir, I—ah—I said I'd ask you if you were."

"Through your mind race the dismal certainties of your Uncle's visit. You know that he has dropped in just for a minute, and that he has lost his return ticket to Cohoes, and that if you could spare five dollars he will— there is only one way out of this sort of interruption. You must kill your telephone operator. They usually die easily. By suddenly flashing a gun you can often scare them to death, which is quiet and absolutely within the law; but if they show courage, shoot, and shoot straight. It is well to have a box or trunk in the office in which to put the body, which should be shipped, collect, to a cemetery or burial studio in the not-too-distant West. My friend, Charles Hanson Towne, the Golferpoet, says he uses a special kind of poisoned candy on stray visitors, because it is noiseless and they do not die in the house. The idea has merit.

We now suppose that, having disposed of both telephone and operator, you have repeated to the thoroughly intimidated office boy your strict orders against intrusion, and that at last you are in medias res, plowing along in your article and actually working up that enthusiasm and self-commendation which is the first fruit of authorship.

The Most Intimate Friend

JUST at this point the door will burst open and in will bound the worst enemy of concentration; your most intimate friend. Your Most Intimate Friend is the sort who knows no let or hindrance in his approach to your office. He knows how to work the catch on the outer gate; he surges by office boys, bowls over stenographers, and plunges into your sanctum with the abandon of a flood. If you are "in a conference", he breaks it up. If you only say you are, he soon finds out. Whatever you are doing must stop, while he explains the object of his visit.

The killing of one's Most Intimate Friend is not the pleasantest thing in the world, but in this case it is the only way. An excellent method is to keep a Gordon gin bottle in your desk containing a strong solution of diluted water and cyanide of potassium. This you produce and say, "I want you to tell me what you think of this. A friend of mine gets it down on Long Island, and I can deliver it at your office for eight dollars a case."

They all fall for that "eight dollars a case" line. Put him in the box with the telephone operator and proceed as before.

The chances are that, after these rather trying office .experiences, you will decide that the Club is after all the best place in which to complete your article. There, you imagine, you will have a greater anonymity than in the smaller compass of your office. The club library will be quiet and deserted in the morning; the light is good; the ink is fine, vintage ink—why had you not thought of it before? So off you go to the Club.

Your club troubles may be summarized as the door, the bore and the snore. The first difficulty is to convince the doorman that you are not "in". Club doormen are a race apart, possessing an uncanny ability for not finding you when it is extremely important that you should be found, and vice versa. You, of course, being a novice, will explain patiently to the oaf that you are not in, that you are going to the library to work, that you are not to be disturbed, etc., to all of which he will agree. Fatal error. The moment your back is turned, he will change the peg on that cribbage-board sort of thing so that you are marked "in", and you are doomed. What you should do is to tell him that you are expecting several important 'phone calls and that it is vital that you be found instantly in the library. With these instructions, he ' will report you "out" to all inquirers.

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The snore hazard is one that can never be entirely avoided. No matter how early you arrive in a club library, there is always at least one old party who is there before you. He belongs to the older sleeping set, who go to the library immediately after breakfast and only leave it for meals. They fall asleep over the morning paper and sleep right through to the 5-star evening editions. Their snoring, grunting, sighing and groaning are grievous interruptions to an ambitious author; but fortunately they are easily silenced. When I work at the Club, I always carry a small bottle of laudanum which I jxmr between the pages of The New Republic, This I lay gently over the face of the snorer, and he is soon sleeping his last sleep. I confided this method to my friend, Hey wood Broun, who illustrates those articles What the Well Dressed Man Will Avoid, and he asked with some point, "Why the laudanum?"

The third menace, the club bore, usually breezes into the library about eleven o'clock. He messes among the magazines, tips over the "silence" sign, spots you, and makes straight for your desk. There is only one way for these fellows, a quick dirk-stroke with some long, pointed tool, straight to the heart, An ordinary ice-pick is excellent. I always carry one with a cork on the end of it to keep me from stabbing myself, After puncturing the bore, place in an easy chair near the window and allow to cool. Then proceed with your article. My earnest advice is not to attempt writing at home; but if you do, you must be prepared to make the supreme sacrifice.

It is almost impossible to find a place to write in at home. Upstairs, of a morning, all the windows are open, beds are being made, pillows are lolling on the sills, and there is general confusion and slamming of doors. You finally settle yourself in the living room, where the light is wrong and the table cluttered, but by perseverance you gradually get into your stride at about the time your wife dispossesses you to make room for the manoeuvres of the vacuum cleaner You move to the dining room, from which you are evicted in what seems about ten minutes, though your wife tells you it is nearly noon and that the children will shortly be home from school,

The Supreme Sacrifice

IT is now time for the supreme sacrifice of which I spoke. You remove yourself and effects upstairs, where all is in order, Arming yourself with some blunt instrument, stand behind the bedroom door and cry in a loud voice, "Oh, dear! I have spilled the ink on the new rose rug." When your wife rushes in, strike. Then smother in pillows and lay in the linen closet. Do not really spill the ink, as the stains are difficult to remove.

About this time, the little ones will come trooping in from school. A pleasant way of ridding one's self of children is a game I invented years ago. It is a winter sport called "Playing Hansel and Gretel". The children are Hansel and Gretel, and you are the witch. You enact the famous oven scene. After leading the little ones hither and yon for a spell, you descend to the cellar, where you open the furnace door and say, "O, see Hansel, and see Gretel, I am baking some fine, hot gingerbread for you!" The children crowd eagerly forward, and with a quick shove you thrust them in and slam the door,

And thus, I really believe, you can finish your article. It is a high price to pay, I grant, and the article will probably be returned; but you can go to sleep that night with the thought that you have done your best and allowed nothing to stand between you and your unquenchable literary ambition,

Re-read my rules carefully, apply them relentlessly, and you will arrive. You will also understand why it is imperative that I remain anonymous.