I remember that during one month I was asked to
do work on the manuscripts of strangers that would require about a
year of my time. The maker of such request does not realize that
he or she is but one among many, and that the poor author would
have to abandon all hope of supporting his family if he tried to
comply. The majority who thus appeal to one know next to nothing
of the literary life or the conditions of success. They write to
the author in perfect good faith, often relating circumstances
which touch his sympathies; yet if you tell them the truth about
their manuscript, or say you have not time to read it, adding that
you have no influence with editors or publishers beyond securing a
careful examination of what is written, you feel that you are
often set down as a churl, and your inability to comply with their
wishes is regarded as the selfishness and arrogance of success.
The worried author has also his own compunctions, for while he has
tried so often and vainly to secure the recognition requested,
till he is in despair of such effort, he still is haunted by the
fear that he may overlook some genius whom it would be a delight
to guide through what seems a thorny jungle to the inexperienced.
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