Literature in the Making, by Some of Its Makers

In Short

This collection of interviews provides a rare, candid glimpse into the minds of prominent American authors during the early twentieth century. Through conversations with figures like William Dean Howells and Kathleen Norris, the book explores the tension between realism and romanticism, the influence of emerging technologies like the motion picture, and the evolving role of the writer in a changing democracy. It serves as both a historical record of literary debates and a timeless meditation on the struggle to write with truth and purpose.

The Story

The narrative arc of the book is defined by a series of structured, intimate dialogues that move from the bedrock of American realism to the experimental frontiers of the early 1900s. It opens with the veteran novelist William Dean Howells, who articulates the foundational argument that literature must be native to its soil, shedding "English spectacles" to depict the wholesome, energetic reality of American life. Howells sets the stage for a recurring debate: the conflict between the writer’s duty to observe the world objectively and the temptation to retreat into romantic fantasy or sensationalism.

As the interviews progress, the focus shifts to the practical and philosophical realities of the profession. Kathleen Norris brings a grounded perspective to the discussion, advocating for stories that celebrate the "joys of the poor" rather than merely cataloging their miseries. The narrative then broadens into technical and cultural analysis. Montague Glass and Rex Beach debate the merits of New York life as a subject, with Beach provocatively suggesting that the moving picture will evolve from a mere amusement into a potent, editorial tool for shaping political thought.

The middle section of the book tackles the "craft" of fiction, with writers like Robert W. Chambers and others dismissing the notion that a novelist requires a second, "real" job to be effective. The discussion deepens as John Erskine and John Burroughs weigh in on the "literature of the soil," analyzing how local environments—from the New England farm to the bustling city streets once walked by Walt Whitman—inform the truthfulness of a story. They grapple with the legacy of the Civil War, which they identify as a catalyst for the "renascence" of the American short story.

The final arc of the book addresses the stylistic revolution of the time. Poets like Amy Lowell defend vers libre against traditionalist critics, emphasizing that poetry is a spoken, rhythmic art rather than a rigid set of mechanical rules. The volume concludes with a broader, almost spiritual assessment of the writer's vocation. Authors like Charles Rann Kennedy look past the immediate anxieties of the era, arguing that art must serve as a message—a bridge of co-operation between souls. The book ends not with a final, definitive theory, but with an invitation for a new generation of writers to interpret the world through a lens of shared, human experience, leaving the reader with the sense that literature is a living, breathing project that never truly concludes.

How It Unfolds

The foundation of realism The opening dialogues establish the necessity of writing about one's own country and time. William Dean Howells argues that true literature must emerge from the democracy rather than from imitation of foreign traditions.

The shift in subject matter The focus turns toward the diversity of American life and the value of ordinary experiences. Kathleen Norris and others argue that writers should find beauty and meaning in the daily pleasures of average households.

The rise of new mediums The discussions branch into the impact of technology on storytelling. Authors contemplate how the motion picture might influence the public mind, predicting a move from pure entertainment toward active, editorial engagement.

The craft of the professional The middle chapters strip away the mystery of the "genius" by focusing on the discipline of the writer. The conversation centers on the risks of serialization and the danger of treating literature as a mere commodity.

The movement toward freedom The text turns to the controversy of free verse and the breaking of traditional forms. Poets and critics debate the importance of rhythm, arguing whether the heart’s beat or the printed page should dictate the structure of art.

The call for a moral message The book concludes with a vision of literature as a social force. Writers express a hope that, in the wake of war, fiction will abandon the trivial to become a direct, meaningful message from the author to the world.

The People

William Dean Howells stands as the intellectual anchor, the realist who insists that a writer must look at the world without a filter. He is met by the spirited, practical perspective of Kathleen Norris, who pushes back against the idea that the "poor" must be viewed only as objects of pity. Montague Glass provides a sharp, ironic edge, navigating the transition between the old world and the new American business-minded reality. Rex Beach acts as a forward-thinking visionary, willing to embrace the "movie" as a legitimate, even powerful, form of art. Finally, poets like Amy Lowell represent the disruptive, vibrant energy of the time, challenging the boundaries of form and rhythm, while figures like John Burroughs provide a bridge to the past, grounding the modern conversation in the earthy, elemental spirit of Walt Whitman. Each figure grapples with the question of whether to remain a passive observer or to take a stand as a moral and social voice in a rapidly changing nation.

In Its Own Voice

"Romanticism is no longer a literary force among English-speaking authors."

Howells characterizes the shift away from the melodramatic past, arguing that the modern era demands a more grounded approach to narrative.

"The writer who comes to New York after spending his youth elsewhere gets the full romantic effect of New York; he gets a perspective on it which the native New-Yorker seldom attains."

Montague Glass explains why an objective, outsider’s viewpoint is often the most effective tool for capturing the character of a city.

"The unit of vers libre is the strophe, not the line or the foot, as in regular meter."

Amy Lowell articulates the structural basis of free verse, encouraging readers to listen for the cadence of the language rather than counting syllables.

What It's Really About

At its heart, the book is a debate about the "truth" of fiction. It asks whether a writer is a craftsman, a reporter of contemporary manners, or a moral philosopher tasked with interpreting the soul of a nation. The contributors grapple with the tension between the "local"—the specific soil, city, or class a writer knows best—and the "universal" reach of great literature. They are deeply concerned with the health of American democracy, questioning how an authentic, native art can flourish when writers are pressured to prioritize commercial trends, "sex novels," or the constraints of serial publication over the integrity of their own vision. It is a work about the labor of sincerity.

Why Read It Today

Readers who love the history of ideas will find this book deeply compelling. It feels like eavesdropping on a series of dinner-party conversations where the participants are not performing for a public, but are genuinely trying to figure out what they are doing and why. You get a sense of the specific anxieties of 1917—the fear that "the movies" might destroy culture, the struggle to define the "Great American Novel," and the hope that art might heal a broken world.

There are difficulties, certainly. The period attitudes can be narrow, and the prose sometimes carries the formal, slightly breathless tone of early twentieth-century journalism. Some of the writers mentioned have faded into obscurity, and their specific complaints about the publishing industry may feel distant. Yet, the core experience—the honest, sometimes grumpy, sometimes hopeful talk about the difficulty of catching a piece of life on the page—remains resonant. What stays with you is the humanity of these people. They are not icons on a pedestal; they are professionals navigating the tension between their personal integrity and the demands of a marketplace, a struggle that remains as relevant and familiar to anyone who writes today.