from a letter by E.B.White, author of
Stuart Little and
Charlotte's Web:
North Brooklin, Maine
May 7, 1961
Dear Miss B.,
... Cathy, as I recall it, asked me why I had not written another book for
children, so I told her. (I don't always tell the exact, whole truth to
children, but my tendency is to do just that.) Then I made what I
considered was a little joke: I suggested a movement in America called
"Don't write to E. B. White until he produces another book." In all this
I see nothing ungracious or cruel. I do see that I raised a question
that should be of interest to librarians and school teachers, namely,
should they, in their zeal to put children in touch with books, also
attempt to put them in touch with authors?
The practice of having youngsters write to authors is now widespread. It
is an innocent, and perhaps laudable, diversion; but it has
arithmetical consequences that teachers and librarians seem unaware of.
The author is hopelessly outnumbered. You, as a librarian, tend to think
of your exhibit as an isolated case, but it is one of thousands. The
result is the author swamped with mail. Letters now come to me faster
than I can answer them. Many of the letters contain requests—for an
autograph, for a dust jacket, for an explanation, for a photograph. This
to me presents a real problem. I have no secretary here at home, and if
I am to deal with my mail I must do it myself; if I am to mail a book I
must find the wrapping paper, the string, the energy, the right amount
of stamps, and take the parcel to the post office up the road. This can
occupy a whole morning, and often does.
I haven't solved this problem and don't really know what I shall do. I
may give up answering letters, or, as some writers do, throw them back
on the publisher—which seems to me evasive and unsatisfying.
About four years ago, I had an idea for a story for children. It seemed
like such a pleasant idea that I spent my spare time for several weeks
doing research and making notes—the raw material of a book. I put
everything in a folder and there it still lies, awaiting a spell when I
feel enough caught up with life to tackle the writing. Every once in a
while I take this folder out and examine it, hungrily. But then I look
at my desk where the unanswered letters and the undone things lie in
accusing piles, and I stick the folder back in its corner.
When I was a child, I liked books, but an author to me was a mythical
being. I never dreamed of getting in touch with one, and no teacher ever
suggested that I do so. The book was the thing, not the man behind the
book. I'm not at all sure that this separation of author and reader
isn't a sound idea, although there are plenty of teachers and plenty of
writers who would disagree. It is somewhat a matter of temperament, I
guess. A lot of writers thrive on a rich diet of adulation and inquiry
and contact; they like to read from their works, sign their name on
flyleafs, and take tea. Other writers are very anxious to do anything
that will promote the sale of their book, and they spend much time and
energy fanning any spark of public interest. As for me, as soon as I get
a book out of my system, I like to forget about it and get on with
something else. So in the long run, although I'm not immune to praise
and to friendliness, I get impatient with the morning mail, because it
is, in a sense, my enemy—the thing that stands between me and a final
burst of creative effort. (I'm sixty-one and working against time.)
Margaret Mitchell once remarked: "It is a full-time job to be the author
'Gone With the Wind.'" This remark greatly impressed me, as being an
admission of defeat, American style. (Miss Mitchell, incidentally, was
not overstating the matter—she never produced another book.) I don't
want being the author of "Charlotte's Web" to be a full-time job or even
a part-time job. It seems to me that being an author is a silly way to
spend one's day ...
Sincerely,
E. B. White
Source, via The Passive Voice: Letters of E. B. White
