I might give a score of reasons that suggest the writing of a book, and which would suit as a paragraph in the column in which you wish to use it, but I prefer to tell the truth, and the truth—-the reason why I wrote the book—-might not appeal to many people as a particularly worthy reason. Well, I wrote because I was hard up and wanted to make some money. I had been writing short story after short story—-some were accepted—-some not. Someone suggested my writing a novel, which they said would help me with the magazines. You doubtless know what it is to make a living solely by writing—-unless one has a big reputation and a big income, from a dozen books, say. Well, for some time I have been trying to make two ends meet solely by writing short stories, and when I tell you that there is not merely myself to be considered, you will understand somewhat of the struggle I had. When I started out with the book I did not even have a plot planned. I went ahead and the plot developed as I wrote. I took keen pleasure in writing it—-and as is my nature, suffered and rejoiced with my characters. But the book was written under pressure. I had to steal the time from my regular work of writing short stories—-which were my livelihood. I don’t know whether this story is good or bad—-I hope it is good. To me writing is something I enjoy, but which I am constantly questioning—-can I afford to do it, for art is a luxury, and one has to have something practical to live by in order to indulge one’s taste for writing. I have written ever since I could remember—-scribbled away at one thing and another—-fairy tales as a child—newspaper articles when I was on the little newspaper in the West Indies—I wrote under five different noms de plumes. Now I am writing almost entirely Japanese stories, and as of course I am in sympathy with my subject I dare say I will please the fickle public. My new book I am putting my whole heart into, and it will be good—-better than anything I had done yet.
I do not need to ask your pardon for being honest in this, but I am so sorry that I could not give you a nice reason for writing the book “Miss Numè of Japan.” You may, if you wish, use the real reason—-that I wrote it because I was hard up. You know it is a good thing that there is such a thing as want and poverty in the world. (Not that I have suffered that actually,) for there are so many people with the ability to do this or that and with talent—genius—dormant in them—-and yet who are too indolent—-yes actually too indolent to do anything towards developing it. Necessity brings it out—-they are crowded into a corner, and the world hears of them then. We have to thank grim old want, perhaps, for some of our masterpieces, both in literature and art. Don’t you think so?
Well, I will never grow indolent in my work—-no matter how independent I become, because I love it for itself. Maybe I don’t know myself, however—I am only a girl in age yet. Years—-a lifetime is before me—-and if indeed I have any talent, I shall make the most of it.
I am impulsive—-and write on impulse generally. A pathetic little incident or a thought appeals to me—-I scribble it out, and the little laughing things of life I grasp after also. The book
“Miss Numè” does not pretend to be a great book—-it was written in a simple fashion—-all the world understands simplicity, though the wise pretend to despise it. I did not try to solve any problems in the book—-there is no psychological analysis. The good, great, old authors dished up so much of that to us that I thought I’d just go ahead and tell the story without pausing to ruminate or moralize. The book is pure—-as all my work shall be, even though they tell me to be successful in literature one must needs introduce harrowing or realistic plots and situations. Well then I will never be a success if that is so, for I cherish
488the absurd idea that perhaps the world is just as interested in clean books as in clean people. I didn’t try to make any of my characters extraordinary or fine—-I tried to paint them as we are in life—-never wonderfully good, and let me believe it, seldom wonderfully bad. Just ordinary human beings. I write because I can’t help myself—-because I love to, and because I earn my living that way—-but I don’t think I have any particular mission in life—-save to play my part as the days go by—-and so, seldom write with an object. Life altogether to me is objectless—-I live from day to day in that day only, and make the most of it—-am glad I am alive. But your kind letter did not call for all this, and you must forgive me.
Chicago, Ill. March 24, 1899.
