Daniel McIntyre Collegiate Institute - Breezes Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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We must never put off our writing or studies by saying, “Oh, I haven’t the time for this extra work.” Samuel Smiles once said, “Those who have the most to do, and are willing to work, will find the most time.” And that famous person, Goethe, wrote, “It is better to be engaged in the most insignificant occupation in the world rather than to look upon half an hour as being of no importance.” Many famous authors have had very trying experiences in getting their work recognised, and often have been years and years before they got anything in print. No one would have Conan Doyle’s first book, “Micah Clark,” and for ten years he almost starved on his literary earnings, but he became famous finally. John Milton got only five pounds, or about twenty-five dollars, for the world-famous classic, “Paradise Lost.” But a real author or poet goes on writing and im¬ proving his art, even if he gets nothing in monetary gain for his efforts. Here is some practical advice to the aspiring author: Don’t start in to write a story unless you have a story to write. That doesn’t mean you must have every turn and incident in your mind before you begin, but you must know what you are aiming for. Do not waste your energies by jumping from one unfinished piece of work to another. Always complete what you start, even if you have to burn it afterwards. Practice spelling diligently. There is more good sound advice in the common school grammar on the subject of how to become an author than in any other book that can be named. Read the dictionary diligently. This increases your knowledge of words. Practice writing in the style of the acknowledged best writers and soon you will develop a style all of your own. Read only the books of good writers and shun trashy stories as you would shun a plague. Learn to express yourself naturally. Never use a three or four-syllabled word if two or even three words of one syllable will express better what you wish to say. Remember, when writing, that unless you please your readers with what you write you can never expect to go very far with them. Draw on your own experiences in life as much as possible for your subject-matter, for that is the source of all true inspiration, the root basis of all true literature. “Words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.” To be a great writer, you must first of all have a great heart, full of human sympathy for your fellow beings, full of love and kindness and the love of right. It is qualities such as these that made Robert Burns, Charles Dickens, Sir Walter Scott, Robert Louis Stevenson, Longfellow and many others famous as writers. Remember that it is only what you put into your writing that will ever come out of it again. That is why your heart must be in it and why your heart must be right, and why you must be able to sound all the chords of human emotions. 3

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LITTLE HINTS ON STORY WRITING By ROBERT WATSON, Winnipeg Author of ‘‘My Brave and Gallant Gentleman,” ‘‘Gordon of the Lost Lagoon,” ‘‘Me—and Peter,” ‘‘Canada’s Fur Bearers.” etc., etc. Almost every girl and boy at some time or other has an ambition to become an author. Not every one of us becomes what he or she would like to be, but to have a desire is the first step in the right direc¬ tion. Now, a desire will never amount to anything unless there is the will to work behind it. Desire, plus determination and work, will accomplish anything. Coupled with this will to work must be a faith in our ability to do what we have set out to do. Even after many failures, we must refuse to harbour the thought of failure; while, if we keep ourselves buoyed up with thoughts of success, we are planting our feet firmly on the road to the success we hope for. One famous poet said,“Thoughts are living things.” Often our thoughts have more force upon ourselves, and even upon others, than have spoken or written words. If we would be an author, we must make an early and a courageous start: not in writing stories that the magazines will publish, but in preparing ourselves for the day when we will be able to do so, for it needs more than a piece of paper, an inkwell and a pen to make an author. But the thing is to make a start. The famous poet Goethe once said, “Are you in earnest? Seize this very minute; What you can do, or think you can, begin it.” And Montrose said something to the same point, “He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who dares not put it to the touch To win or lose it all.” Sir John Lubbock tells us that all succeed in life who deserve, though not perhaps as they had hoped; that an honourable defeat is better than a mean victory, and no one is really the worse for being beaten unless he loses heart. We must never lose heart. Most well-known authors have begun their literary careers by writing simple verses even in their juvenile years. To try to put our thoughts into nicely measured rhyme is splendid literary exercise, and it is wonderful how proficient one becomes at it after a while. Versifying teaches us how to express our thoughts in few words and in neat fashion. It teaches the beauty of selection of words and phrases, and it teaches us balance and ryhthm which are so necessary to fine writing, poetry or prose—for it is a great mistake to imagine that all poetry is in rhyme. Much of Robert Louis Stevenson’s prose is the sweetest of poetry; so, also, is Henry Van Dyke’s. To be successful as an author generally means hard, heart-breaking work, and it is impossible to instruct anyone how to become an author unless the knack of it is born in that person. All that one can do is to inform the beginner how to improve his art.

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Do not try so much to draw pictures of objects you see, for that is simply reporting; but try, rather, to put on paper the feelings you experienced in seeing these objects—that is art. Always be willing to accept criticism, if it is criticism that will help you the .better to construct. Criticism, without any advice as to how to remedy what is criticised, is useless to a writer. Canadian literature is now just at its awakening, and the writer of to-day in Canada are blazing the trail for you who will follow. In the words of our famous war poet, Colonel John McCrae, “To you from failing hands we throw The torch, be yours to hold it high.” AN ADVENTURE IN POLAND A cold, bleak day greeted my first vision of Poland, “the Land of Snow.” Such a scene was naturally not at all calculated to cheer the weary traveller. My uncle and I had just completed the first lap of our journey from Berlin to Kempen, Posin.a small city, or rather town, in Poland. Thus far we had come in an evil-smelling, cold, and badly-lighted train. “This” we thought, “must be the maximum of hardship to which any traveller can be subjected;” but we were not much surprised when we saw in what way the remainder of the journey would be made. Previously we had lacked air; now we were to travel in a carriage which was composed chiefly of air. The roof was like a fish net. The wheels stood up. (I will say that much for them.) This type of car¬ riage, in its better days, was called a “Droshke.” Now our troubles began in earnest. Our driver, who, by the way, resembled his horse and carriage, simply refused to take both us and all our baggage in one load. His horse wasn’t strong enough, he said, and even if he were, the carriage wouldn’t stand it. Therefore, the only thing we could do was to divide forces. My uncle decided to take half the baggage and an old farm cart which was, happily, on the spot. As for me, I could take my chance with the “Droshke,” and the horse. To this day, I think my uncle got the better of the bargain. Our two vehicles started together, but my horse was no match for the husky farmer’s, and soon I was left far behind. It was bitterly cold, the wind blew through the carriage, and snow began to fall. My man told me that the reason he never put runners on his carriage in winter was that he feared he could not get the wheels back on, and this I firmly believed. I tried to doze off, but suddenly came to with a jerk. A uniformed man barred our way with a rifle. From my driver, I gathered that my passport was wanted. That finished things for me. My uncle, who was now so many miles ahead of me, had both passports comfortably in his inside pocket. I did my best to explain this to the man, and it pleased him so greatly that he told me I could either stay out there all night, or go back whence I came. Since I could not do the latter, I had to remain where I was, whether I ' wished to do so, or not. As if this were not enough, he gave me the honour of an armed guard. This fine fellow informed me that he supposed my uncle would come back for me 4