How to Write a Play | Page 2

and take the best road that leads there. He omits, however, to
give instructions about finding that road--which some might think
important.
The foregoing indicates to some extent the buffeting about which a
searcher for practical advice on play-writing may find himself subject
in this collection of letters. He had better go for mere instruction to
those of a lower order of intellect, whose imaginative or creative
faculties do not monopolize their entire mental area.

But that will hardly serve him better, for the truth is that no one can
convey to him--whether by written words or orally--or even by signs
and miracles--the right and proper method of constructing a play. A
few people know, but they are utterly unable to communicate that
knowledge to others. In one place and one only can this unfortunate
person team how to proceed, and that is the theatre; and the people to
see about it there are situated in front of the foot-lights and not behind
them.
A play or drama is not a simple and straight-told story; it is a
device--an invention--a carefully adjusted series of more or less
ingenious traps, independent yet inter-dependent, and so arranged that
while yet trapping they carry forward the plot or theme without a break.
These traps of scene, of situation, of climax, of acts and tableaux or of
whatever they are, require to be set and adjusted with the utmost nicety
and skill so that they will spring at the precise instant and in the precise
manner to seize and hold the admiration--sympathy--interest--or
whatever they may be intended to capture, of an audience. Their
construction and adjustment--once one of the simplest--is now of
necessity most complicated and intricate. They must operate precisely
and effectively, otherwise the play--no matter how admirable its basic
idea--no matter how well the author knows life and humanity, will fail
of its appeal and be worthless--for a play is worthless that is unable to
provide itself with people to play to. The admiration of a few librarians
on account of certain arrangements of the words and phrases which it
may contain can give it no value as drama. Such enthusiasm is not
altogether unlike what a barber might feel over the exquisite way in
which the hair has been arranges on a corpse; despite his approval it
becomes quite necessary to bury it.
The play-writer's or playwright's work, then, supposing that he
possesses the requisite knowledge of life as it is lived to go on with, is
to select or evolve from that knowledge the basic idea, plot or theme,
which, skillfully displayed, will attract; and then to invent, plan, devise,
and construct the trap wherein it is to be used to snare the sympathies,
etc., of audiences.

But audiences are a most undependable and unusual species of game.
From time immemorial their tastes, requirements, habits, appetites,
sentiments and general characteristics have undergone constant change
and modification; and thus continues without pause to the present day.
The dramatic trap that would work like a charm not long ago may not
work at all to-day; the successful trap of to-day may be useless junk
tomorrow.
It must be obvious, then, that for light and instruction on the judicious
selection of the bait, and on the best method or methods of devising the
trap wherein that bait is to be displayed (that is to say the play) but one
thing can avail; and that one thing is a most diligent and constant study
of the habits and tastes of this game which it is our business to
capture--if we can. To go for information about these things to people
sitting by their firesides dreaming of bygone days, or, indeed, to go to
anyone sitting anywhere, is merely humorous. The information which
the dramatist seeks cannot be told--even by those who know. For the
gaining of such knowledge is the acquirement of an instinct which
enables its possessor automatically to make use of the effective in
play-writing and construction and devising, and automatically to shun
the ineffective. This instinct must be planted and nourisht by more or
less (more if possible) living with audiences, until it becomes a part of
the system--yet constantly alert for the necessary modifications which
correspond to the changes which the tastes and requirements of these
audiences undergo.
An education like this is likely to take the dramatist a great deal of
time--unless he is so fortunate as to be a genius. Perhaps the main
difference between the play-writing genius and the rest of us is that he
can associate but briefly with audiences and know it all, whereas we
must spend our lives at it and know but little. I have never happened to
hear of a genius of this description; but that is no argument against the
possibility of his