We shall be expected to write our novels in chapters not exceeding twenty words. Our short stories will be reduced to the formula: “Little boy. Pair of skates. Broken ice, Heaven’s gates.” Formerly an author, commissioned to supply a child’s tragedy of this genre for a Christmas number, would have spun it out into five thousand words. Personally, I should have commenced the previous spring—given the reader the summer and autumn to get accustomed to the boy. He would have been a good boy; the sort of boy that makes a bee-line for the thinnest ice. He would have lived in a cottage. I could have spread that cottage over two pages; the things that grew in the garden, the view from the front door. You would have known that boy before I had done with him—felt you had known him all your life. His quaint sayings, his childish thoughts, his great longings would have been impressed upon you. The father might have had a dash of humour in him, the mother’s early girlhood would have lent itself to pretty writing. For the ice we would have had a mysterious lake in the wood, said to be haunted. The boy would have loved o’ twilights to stand upon its margin. He would have heard strange voices calling to him. You would have felt the thing was coming. So much might have been done. When I think of that plot wasted in nine words it makes me positively angry. And what is to become of us writers if this is to be the new fashion in literature? We are paid by the length of our manuscript at rates from half-a-crown a thousand words, and upwards. In the case of fellows like Doyle and Kipling I am told it runs into pounds. How are we to live on novels the serial rights of which to most of us will work out at four and nine-pence. It can’t be done. It is no good telling me you can see no reason why we should live. That is no answer. I’m talking plain business. And what about book-rights? Who is going to buy novels of three pages? They will have to be printed as leaflets and sold at a penny a dozen. Marie Corelli and Hall Caine—if all I hear about them is true—will possibly make their ten or twelve shillings a week. But what about the rest of us? This thing is worrying me. SHOULD SOLDIERS BE POLITE?