1 8THE SOONER MAGAZINEBY STAN LWA LLSA romance <strong>of</strong> the Santa Fe Trailby the author <strong>of</strong> `Kit Carson'one geniusin a familyby stanley veslaltheory-namely, that writing as a joint affair is the only way fora man and his wife to see anything <strong>of</strong> each other, especially whenboth have other work than writing to attend to . People mightsuppose that we took up writing as golf-widows take up golfsoas to see something <strong>of</strong> each other now and then .NOT long ago I saw a picture in a comicmagazine . It represented a disturbed writerlooking up from his desk to scold the cat .The caption (addressed to the cat) read as follows: "What are you doing, stamping through thehouse?"That picture presents the ancient reputation <strong>of</strong>the writers, for from the very beginning they havebeen dubbed the irritable tribe, theirs the cranky,touchy, and altogether difficult pr<strong>of</strong>ession . Theydo their work in solitary confinement, and <strong>of</strong>tenare unable to think <strong>of</strong> anything else even whenthey are not working. And so they are apt to seemlonely souls, irritable as a porcupine .Of course this picture is overdrawn, a caricature .But there is enough truth in it to make peoplewonder what happens in a house where there isnot only one writer-but two!! And why, if thereis already one person writing in that house, anotherone should wish to do so . At least, that is whatthe editor <strong>of</strong> The Sooner Magazine has asked meto discuss .At first, one might suppose that it was a meretrick <strong>of</strong> self-defense on the part <strong>of</strong> one or the other .One might try to explain it on the proverbial principlethat Misery Loves Company . One might contendthat the only way to put up with a writeris to become a writer oneself . But like all plausibletheories, this one has a catch in it . For the factthat both <strong>of</strong> the Campbells have always wishedto write, and have been working towards it independentlyfrom the start. And so this theoryfalls to the ground . Facts kill it .Facts also dispose pretty effectively <strong>of</strong> anotherUT the truth is, we both wanted to write, both began towrite, and both found ourselves writing without any expressedplans . And considering the satisfaction <strong>of</strong> the work, it seemslikely we shall go on writing for some time . Everyone admitsthat the woman who knows nothing <strong>of</strong> business, the man whotakes no interest in his home, are both missing a great deal <strong>of</strong>common experience which they might share . But when twopeople practice the same art, they have a bond which arises froma mutual understanding <strong>of</strong> each other's problems and triumphs .And this, I should say, is the major satisfaction <strong>of</strong> having twowriters in one house .For, after all, there is no talk like shop talk . Golfers talk golf .Business men talk business . Horsey men talk horses . Mothers talkchildren . We all love to talk <strong>of</strong> the thing we are interested in, andto talk to others who know what we mean . And that is one <strong>of</strong>the chief blessings <strong>of</strong> having two writers in one house . Especiallywhen they are man and wife .Everyone has seen pr<strong>of</strong>essional writers,living alone, distrustful, carefully avoiding allreference to their work in the presence <strong>of</strong> otherwriters, never really letting themselves go in argu-mentor criticismor praise,menwho leadalifeabout as cheerful and sociable as that <strong>of</strong> the wanderingJew . No wonder people call them irritable,They are . It would do them good to talk shopwith someone who is neither a collaborator nor arival .F OR that describes the two <strong>of</strong> us, I think, IsabelCampbell and Stanley Vestal have never collaborated,and probably could not do so . The materialswhich stimulate the imagination <strong>of</strong> onewould not stir the other ; and our techniques arewidely different, as anyone who reads what wewrite will agree . But for that very reason we findshop talk very pr<strong>of</strong>itable, because each one bringssomething which is fresh and novel to the other .And so we have plenty <strong>of</strong> discussion, debate, andargument about technical matters <strong>of</strong> writing-discussionswhich to me, at least, are extremely divertingand useful . And we have such a good time atthem, that we never notice whether the cat isstamping through the house or not .EDITOR'S NOTE--Reviews Of Dobe Walls byStanley Vestal and Jack Sprat by Isabel Campbell,as appearing in newspapers and magazines, willappear in The Sooner Magazine for November.Jack Sprat in particular has received unstinted STANLEYpraise for its brilliance and finish . VESTAL
OCTOBER, 192919i.3 not enoughsay the campbellsby isabel campbellF I could bring myself to believe in ghosts, I would say,III answer to queries <strong>of</strong> my friends as to how it feels to bea novelist, "I don't know-I never wrote a novel-thatbook in the yellow cover named `Jack Sprat' was writtenby some woman named Isabel Campbell . The name seemsfamiliar but the book looks just like any other novel to me ."If it weren't for the memory <strong>of</strong> those three months I spent inConnecticut pounding away at the typewriter four, five andsix hours a day, I should state in all seriousness that someoneelse wrote, so complete is my present detachment toward it .I felt the same way toward my first baby . It took mesome months to realize that she was mine .Anyway it seems that the novel is here to stay .One novelist in a family is bad enough, but two novelists,writing at the same time, as Mr . Campbell and I did duringthe summer <strong>of</strong> 1927, is awful . We were living in an oldcolonial country home in Connecticut . My husband generouslyinsisted that I take the only study, so he had to do hiswork on the dining room table, which was a long refectorytable . Our schedule was rather strenuous . After breakfastour little girls attempted to do the dishes for us, I shut myselfinto the study and Mr. Campbell shut himself into thedining room . Only the horrible clatter <strong>of</strong> our Underwoodskept our thoughts from being distractedby the cries coming from the kitchen"Mother, Malory is splashing dishwater on my-Mother, Dorothy won't dry the forks properly ."There was only one way to keep thinking aboutthe project on hand, and that was to keep thetypewriters going full tilt all morning .After the dishes were finally washed, the childrenwaded in a stream running through theproperty and visited three little friends up the hill .T twelve o'clock, I dashed into the kitchen,threw some potatoes into the oven to bake,cooked some steak and prepared any green vegetableswe could get from the huckster who drovepast every day . Incidentally, our green vegetableman brought us food in a Packard while we modestlytool: the air in a Chevrolet. But we consoledourselves with the thought that we had satisfactions<strong>of</strong> the mind and spirit that the green grocerknew not <strong>of</strong> . Whether the satisfactions <strong>of</strong> the mindreally do compensate for an eight cylinder car, Iam not prepared to say . I have never had a Packard .After dinner and another bout at the dishes,we went back to more writing. During the afternoonas our daily stints neared completion, wewere both anxious to get an opinion on what hadbeen written and it <strong>of</strong>ten happened that we collidedin the doorway, each with a sheaf <strong>of</strong> yellow,single spaced pages grasped in the hand ."Listen," I would cry at the same time thatMr. Campbell would shout, "What do youthink <strong>of</strong> this?" and we would both begin to readISABEL at once . Then we would straighten the tangleCAMPBELL out and read to each other what we had written .This would be about four o'clock in the afternoon. Then we would get in the Chevie, drivethe three miles to town and buy our food for thenext day's rations .After supper we scandalously wasted an hoursitting under the big maples that lined the brook,which was a gurgling one, <strong>of</strong> course, and nineo'clock saw us sound asleep . Oh, it was a great life,it was one <strong>of</strong> the happiest summers I ever spent .®NE <strong>of</strong> the nicest things about the New Englandcountry life was the total absence <strong>of</strong>window and door screens . The outdoors seemedto come right into the house . There was noshed wire to blur the beauty <strong>of</strong> the round greenwooded hills . Even the bumble bees were friendly. One big yellow fellow regularly flew intomy study door, buzzed curiously around my tableand then flew away again. One day two irridescenthumming birds flew in, but they were s<strong>of</strong>rightened that they tried to fly through one windowthat was closed and were about to batterthemselves to death . We captured them in anold felt hat and turned them loose,I T'S lots <strong>of</strong> fun to write, particularly whenthere is a wise and sympathetic ear to listen .Contrary to the belief that it is the sight <strong>of</strong> thename in print that is the lure, I think the mostfascinating part <strong>of</strong> the whole business is the actualwork at the typewriter . Writing takes intenseconcentration, full use <strong>of</strong> every ounce <strong>of</strong>available energy and continuous application . Inother words it gives one a chance to function fully,and that is my definition <strong>of</strong> happiness .
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