John Milton Edwards, in the pages that follow, will spin the slender thread of a story recounting his successes and failures. Extracts of correspondence between him and his publishers will be introduced, and other personal matters will be conjured with, by way of illustrating the theme and giving the text a helpful value. This slender thread of narrative will be broken at intervals to permit of sandwiching in a few chapters not germane to the story but _en rapport_ with the work which made the story possible. In other words, while life goes forward within the Factory-walls it will not be amiss to give some attention to the Factory itself, to its equipment and methods, and to anything of possible interest that has to do with its output. And finally, of course John Milton Edwards is not the author's real name. Shielded by a _nom de plume_, the author's experiences here chronicled may be of the most intimate nature. In point of fact, they will be helpful and entertaining in a direct ratio with their sincerity and frankness. "A LITTLE GIFT" A little gift I have of words, A little talent, Lord, is all, And yet be mine the faith that girds An humble heart for duty's call. Where Genius soars to distant skies, And plumes herself in proud acclaim, O Thou, let plodding talent prize The modest goal, the lesser fame. Let this suffice, make this my code, As I go forward day by day, To cheer one heart upon life's road, To ease one burden by the way. I would not scale the mountain-peak, But I would have the strength of ten To labor for the poor and weak, And win my way to hearts of men. A little gift Thou gavest me, A little talent, Lord, is all, Yet humble as my art may be I hold it waiting for Thy call. September 20, 1911. John Milton Edwards. THE FICTION FACTORY I. AUT FICTION, AUT NULLUS. "Well, my dear," said John Milton Edwards, miserably uncertain and turning to appeal to his wife, "which shall it be--to write or not to write?" "To write," was the answer, promptly and boldly, "to do nothing else but write." John Milton wanted her to say that, and yet he did not. Her conviction, orally expressed, had all the ring of true metal; yet her husband, reflecting his own inner perplexities, heard a false note suggesting the base alloy of uncertainty. "Hadn't we better think it over?" he quibbled. "You've been thinking it over for two years, John, and this month is the first time your returns from your writing have ever been more than your salary at the office. If you can be so successful when you are obliged to work nights and Sundays--and most of the time with your wits befogged by office routine--what could you not do if you spent ALL your time in your Fiction Factory?"