How to write Little Blue Books

The Story

The journey of a Little Blue Book begins not with a completed manuscript, but with a calculated, professional proposal directed to the editorial offices in Girard, Kansas. The process is defined by its pragmatism: the publisher, E. Haldeman-Julius, operates a rigorous, high-volume machine, and he expects his contributors to respect that machinery. The prospective author must first look at the vast, existing catalog—numbering over fourteen hundred titles—to determine where a meaningful gap exists. The author must then craft a pitch that highlights their specific qualifications, demonstrating that they are an expert capable of delivering a clear, educational, and non-original-theory work.

Once the editor reviews the proposal and grants an assignment, the writer enters a period of intense, sixty-day labor. During this time, the author is expected to produce a manuscript that is physically and structurally precise, meeting the rigid page counts of either thirty-two or sixty-four pages. This is not a space for personal manifestos or obscure academic theses; it is a space for "self-education and self-improvement." The writer must navigate the technical hurdles of specific type settings, such as eight-point type on sixteen-em lines, while ensuring their prose remains accessible to readers who may lack formal academic backgrounds.

Throughout the drafting phase, the writer must adhere to a specific "house style" regarding punctuation, hyphenation, and capitalization. They must avoid the vanity of "different" formatting—such as colored ink or heavy, deckled-edge paper—which serves only to annoy the editorial staff. If the writer is tasked with abridging a classic, they must exercise a "knack" for dramatic essence, bridging omitted passages with concise, original summaries that keep the narrative coherent. All technical or quoted content must follow specific, simplified typographical rules to ensure the final product remains affordable at a five-cent price point.

Upon completion, the manuscript is submitted via first-class mail. If it satisfies the rigorous editorial requirements, the author receives payment promptly, often within three days of receipt. The work then proceeds to the typesetters, where it is finalized for mass production. Throughout this entire arc, the author is reminded that their contribution is merely one unit in a massive, ongoing educational project. If they cannot meet the deadline, or if their work fails to provide the consistent, high-quality, and widely appealing content demanded by the public, their tenure as a contributor will be short-lived. The process concludes not with a flourish of artistic license, but with the quiet, successful integration of a new, reliable title into a library that serves a "breathlessly awaiting public."

The People

• E. Haldeman-Julius: The publisher and editor-in-chief, he is the final arbiter of what constitutes a successful book. He values efficiency and marketability above all, and he refuses to waste time on authors who cannot follow instructions or who offer "original" philosophies that lack mass appeal.
• The Prospective Contributor: The individual who aspires to join the series. Their primary obstacle is their own potential for ego; they must learn to suppress personal artistic flair in favor of the publisher’s strict, standardized requirements for technical and educational clarity.
• The Assistant Editor (Lloyd E. Smith): The author of this guide, he serves as the bridge between the publisher and the writers. He is a veteran contributor himself and acts as a disciplinarian, ensuring that new writers understand the mechanical "why" behind every editorial rule.
• The Typesetter/Printer: An unseen but ever-present force. They are the ones who ultimately transform the messy, human process of writing into a standardized, five-cent commodity. They have little patience for "idiosyncrasies" like colored ribbons or non-standard margins that complicate their production flow.

In Its Own Voice

The author emphasizes that the series is not a venue for personal expression, but a tool for general education.

It is not the aim or function of the Little Blue Book series to promulgate original ideas.

In addressing the practical reality of professional writing, the author offers a stark ultimatum to those who struggle to generate viable content.

If you have no ideas, no matter how good a writer you are, you may as well sell your typewriter and become a soda clerk or elevator boy.

Regarding the presentation of work, the author warns against the common mistake of confusing professional formatting with attempts to appear unique.

Another writer—this time an unsuccessful one—sent in a manuscript on sepia brown paper, beautifully typed in dark brown ribbon to match.

What It's Really About

At its core, this book is a treatise on the democratization of knowledge through rigid industrial standardization. It frames the act of writing not as an ethereal, inspired calling, but as a specialized trade. The argument is that for information to be truly accessible to the common person—those lacking formal university training—the delivery vehicle must be stripped of all pretension. By setting strict rules for length, typography, and style, the publisher ensures that every volume in the series feels like a cohesive part of a greater, encyclopedic whole.

The book also explores the tension between individual authorship and mass-market demand. It argues that a writer’s value is entirely contingent on their ability to satisfy a pre-existing need. If the public wants to know how to repair a radio or understand the history of the American Revolution, the writer is a servant of that need. There is no room for the author to impose their own idiosyncratic research or literary theories. The book is effectively an argument for "content utility," suggesting that the most successful writers are those who can effectively synthesize existing knowledge into a format that is cheap to produce and easy to consume.

Beneath the technical instructions lies a deeply pragmatic philosophy of education. The "University in Print" is not meant to challenge the reader with radical new thoughts, but to provide an affordable, reliable, and portable curriculum for self-improvement. The book’s consistent rejection of "original philosophy" underscores a desire for stability; the series aims to be a source of established facts and practical skills. It treats knowledge as a commodity to be curated, packaged, and distributed with the same efficiency as any other essential good. Consequently, the book invites the reader to stop viewing writing as an act of self-expression and start viewing it as a technical contribution to a larger, communal project of enlightenment. It is an exploration of how a publisher can turn the messy, unpredictable business of intellectual labor into a streamlined, profitable, and culturally significant enterprise.

Why Read It Today

Readers today will find this book to be a fascinating time capsule of the 1920s American intellectual landscape. It feels remarkably modern in its insistence on "content" and "audience," yet it carries the earnest, slightly pedantic tone of a bygone era. You will love it if you are interested in the history of publishing or the mechanics of how information was distributed before the digital age. It captures the spirit of a time when "self-education" was a major industry and a source of genuine pride for the working class.

The reading experience is highly instructional, almost like reading a manual for an old machine. It is blunt, humorless, and deeply pragmatic, which gives it a strange, rhythmic charm. You will notice the period attitudes clearly, particularly in the author’s disdain for "idiosyncratic" writers and his firm belief that there is a "correct" way to be a professional. The difficulties of the book lie primarily in its extreme focus on the technicalities of the 1920s printing process—such as "16-em lines" and "pica vs. elite type"—which may be opaque to a modern reader. However, these technical details provide a vivid sense of the physical reality of books from that period.

What stays with you after reading is the contrast between the author's utilitarian view of writing and the romanticized notion of authorship common today. The book reminds you that for a long time, the most impactful writing wasn't necessarily the most creative, but the most useful. It is a humble, workmanlike guide that turns the act of creating a book into a task as logical as plumbing or carpentry. For anyone who writes, it serves as a sobering, perhaps even grounding, reminder that being a "writer" is, at its most fundamental level, about being a clear communicator who can serve the needs of a reader. It is an honest look at the grind behind the glamour of publication.