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It is best that a reputation should be made slowly. The greatest and firmest of modem reputations have been made slowly. When the author has produced something which the public appreciates, he should offer the public something else of the same sort, but better, as soon as possible. He need not be afraid of tiring the public by too much work; he will only tire them by perfunctory and hasty work. Critics are fond of crying out against over-production. One sees the phrase in the newspapers: “Mr. Blank is one of the few authors who do not overwrite themselves.” The truth is that only a small minority of authors over-write themselves. Most of the good and the tolerable ones do not write enough. They are in receipt of comfortable incomes and they develop a tendency to be lazy. This I know by auricular confessions. If the good and the tolerable authors wrote more, there would be less room for the perfunctory and the impudently careless authors.

The aspirant who has been fortunate enough to make even the smallest success cannot follow it up too industriously and pertinaciously. He should take care to produce books at short regular intervals. He may continue this process for years without any really striking result either in fame or money, and he may pessimistically imagine that his prolonged labours are fruitless. And then newspapers will begin to refer to him as a known author, as an author the mention of whose name is sufficient to recall his productions, and he will discover that all the while the building of his reputation has been going on like the building of a coral reef. Even mediocre talent, when combined with fixity of purpose and regular industry, will infallibly result in a gratifying success. But it must never be forgotten that while the reputation is being formed, the excellent and amiable public needs continuous diplomatic treatment. The excellent and amiable public must not be permitted to ignore the existence of the rising author. At least once a year, and oftener if possible, a good, solid, well-made book should be flung into the libraries.

When the reputation is fully achieved, and the author’s talent arrived at maturity, then, and not before, he may begin to enlarge his borders and indulge his idiosyncrasies with more freedom. In other words, the compromise between his own taste and the taste of the public, to which every author except the greatest must submit and ought to submit, may be to a certain extent abandoned. It is difficult to make a reputation, but it is even more difficult seriously to mar a reputation once properly made—so faithful is the public. From an established favourite the public will stand even hasty work and insolence. Much more, therefore, will it stand original and novel work that is sincerely done.

Of course every author rightly wishes to make a position for himself as quickly as he can. And the author who achieves an early sudden success is to be congratulated—if his moral qualities are such that he can live up to that success. But an early success is a snare. The inexperienced author takes too much for granted. Conceit overcomes him. He regards himself with an undue seriousness. He thinks that he is founded in granite for ever. He thinks that the public will enjoy whatever he does because he has done it. Also he is tempted to expend his spirit prodigally in the service of editors and publishers for immediate profit, instead of working in secret for future and larger profit. The way not to consolidate a reputation is to fritter away energy on a multitude of small journalistic items instead of concentrating it on a single momentous enterprise. The young man with a small success to his credit may hug himself on the fact that he has got contracts for a regular weekly signed article in a sixpenny paper, a sensational serial in a daily, a hundred pounds’ worth of short stories in various Christmas numbers, and so on. But it were perhaps better for him, artistically and financially, that he should have earned less current money and given more time to a large work. Literary reputations are made by books (the longer the better!), not by contributions to the journalism of the day.

All the foregoing remarks are addressed to those of my readers who do not happen to have very exceptional talent; that is, to about 99 per cent, of my readers. The man of very exceptional talent and the man of genius make rules to suit themselves, and break the old rules with astonishing felicity.