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It is generally thought by people not connected with literary men—not their wives or their families—that the life of an author is highly enviable. As friends of mine have said: “You can write where you like and when you like, and you are not tied down to office hours, and you are entirely your own master.”

That sounds good and there is a certain amount of truth in it, provided that the author is sufficiently successful to write where he likes and when he likes—how many can do this?—and does not have to suffer torture, financial anxiety, and lack of ideas as his own master, with a typewriter and a wad of white paper, on which he has to write an incredible number of words which must be the right words, pleasing to himself, to his publisher, to his critics, and to the reading public.

All that is very difficult, and if an author has written one successful book, or even two or three, he has no sense of security. What about the next? Will he ever get another idea or work out a plot or theme for another story? That is when he begins to agonise and sometimes to become panic-stricken. He chases an idea like a will-o’-the-wisp and it eludes him. He goes for long walks hoping to find an idea at the next turning of the road, and comes back without it, moody, irritable, frustrated.

Lady Cynthia Asquith has told in her portrait of James Barrie, to whom she acted as secretary, that for ten years he could not find an idea for a new play. I can imagine no more horrible ordeal for an author. Ten years of nagging thought and barrenness of imagination. In Barrie’s case it caused no financial anxiety because he had made a fortune with his previous work, but imagine the torture of a writer dependent upon his next book for the nourishment of his wife and family, for the schooling of his young boys, and for the due payment of Income Tax already in arrears.

Forty years ago, when I gave up a regular job in Fleet Street to be a writer of books, I was haunted by this sense of insecurity. The success of one book might never be repeated, and I had those awful periods between one book and another when my mind was as blank as a sheet of paper in a silent and unused typewriter.

“I’m finished!” I would announce to my incredulous wife. “I haven’t an idea in my head. I shall never write another novel.”

It happened every time between the publication of one book and another, while my friends would say, “How easily he writes! He is never at a loss for an idea.” And my dismal groans were received with ridicule by my family, who would say, “You’re like the boy who cried, ‘Wolf, Wolf!’ ” But I reminded them gloomily that one day the wolf came, and no one believed it.

Some years ago I wrote half a novel and could not finish it. In despair I flung it into the coal-hole. Then for two months I paced the country roads and heaths in search of another idea. No idea came. Then at last I thought of that unfinished work in the coal-hole and wondered if it still lay there. Strangely enough I found it—covered in coal dust. I took it out, re-typed it and finished it. It was duly published and was a fair success, but I did not dare tell this story lest my critics should say—how could they resist it?—“It’s a pity he didn’t leave it in the coal-hole!”

It’s dangerous to be an author.

It’s dangerous, or at least extremely hazardous, to rely upon the writing of books or poetry—God help the fellow!—as one’s sole source of income. It is indeed foolhardy to say as a young man, “Now I’m going to be an author,” and to retire to one’s bedroom in the parental house with a bottle of ink and a penny exercise book (now threepence, perhaps) and cheap editions of the great masters on the bookshelves. It is still more hazardous if one has no parental home but a bed-sitting-room for which the rent has to be paid, in addition to light, fuel and food cooked on a gas-ring.

The first danger, of course, is starvation, or at the best under-nourishment. I am inclined to think that this way of ensuring an early death, and the favour of the gods who take them young, is now out of date. The modern poet does not starve in an attic, but has a job in a publisher’s office or writes snappy little articles for the popular papers, or serves behind the counter of a big store, writing only in his spare time when he delves into his sub-consciousness, smoking too many cigarettes which he can ill-afford (3s. 10d. a packet), or awaiting inspiration from the divine Muse which, alas, very seldom comes. So it is with the young novelist if he is a prudent man and willing to work overtime.

When I wrote my first novels I was a hard-working journalist in Fleet Street and a married man. My hours were very irregular and often I came home late at night; but somehow I found time and will-power to begin and finish a novel, which is no light task whatever the quality may be.

I wrote The Street of Adventure, my first success, when I was out of a job after the death of The Tribune, that great Liberal newspaper on which I had been literary editor. I wrote it with desperate industry for one purpose only—apart from an imaginative urge to tell the story of a Fleet Street romance—and that was to maintain the upkeep of a little house in Kensington.

My wife and I went down for a month to a coastguard cottage at Littlehampton. All day long the noise of a fun fair blared forth with the joyous screams of children building sand castles or riding on donkeys. I wrote for dear life late into the night, and by the end of the month wrote the magic words “The End.” I took it up to town and, having to change at a railway junction, left it on the mantelshelf of the station waiting-room. Upon reaching town I became aware of my loss. It was my only copy, hand-written. I telegraphed to the stationmaster and two hours later received a reply, “Manuscript found.” A prayer of thankfulness rose from my heart, but afterwards I was not so sure that its recovery was a blessing. That was when I was threatened with half a dozen libel actions. Most of my characters in the novel were easily recognisable portraits of The Tribune staff. In the innocence of my heart I thought they would be liked by the originals, except perhaps by the proprietor, Franklin Thomasson, of that ill-fated journal, of whom I had been slightly critical. They did not like these portraits in prose, and it was my “hero,” Christopher Codrington, in real life Randolph Charlton, who resented my humorous caricature of him. By going to law (but not taking the case into court) he cost me a good bit of money deducted from my earnings by the publisher, who had to foot the bill.

So, as I have said, authorship is one of the dangerous professions. The risk of libel is perilous and often difficult to avoid. The choice of a name is apt to lead to trouble, and however unusual the name one may use for a disagreeable character, there is sure to be someone who bears it and takes umbrage because he insists that he is suffering professional or social damage by being falsely identified with my sinister or disreputable fellow. Having been in trouble over this several times, I tried to safeguard myself by choosing names of obscure stations out of a railway timetable. No sooner had my novel been published than I had a letter from a Catholic friend of mine—a priest—saying, “Why did you take the names of two of my cousins and make them fall in love, when they hate each other like poison?”

My most unfortunate, and expensive, experience was connected with a non-fiction book called Ordeal in England. It covered the period of the Abdication, which could not be passed over. Having been devoted to Edward when he was Prince of Wales, I wrote with great sympathy and without malice, but when 40,000 copies of this book had been ordered by the bookshops, I received a letter from the Duke of Windsor’s solicitor demanding its immediate withdrawal. Now this was a staggering blow. The offending chapter had been examined by no less than three of my publisher’s professional readers and by two lawyers intent upon avoiding all cause of complaint by the Duke or Duchess. They had passed it as impeccable. Now, Charles Evans of Heinemann was deeply anxious to avoid trouble of this kind, having already been taken into court for a book dealing with the Abdication and sternly rebuked by the Lord Chief Justice, with a warning that if it happened again severe consequences would follow. My book was withdrawn from all libraries and bookshops. When 40,000 copies had been returned I knew that I was sunk, for each one had to be paid for. The publishers shared the loss with me and my bill of costs amounted to £1,500.

Did I say that it is dangerous to be an author?

The younger novelist has a hard time nowadays to get his work published and, if published, to get sufficient reward by sales to make a fair income. Owing to the increasing cost of book production because of the rise of printers’ wages, the price of paper and binding, and the overhead expenses of publishers themselves—in rents, rates, salaries and advertising—always going up, the publishers are not inclined to take a risk with a novel by an unknown writer which is unlikely to sell several thousands of copies. It must have some special and sensational interest. For a time this was provided by extreme frankness on the subject of sex, but now, after several prosecutions at the Old Bailey and elsewhere, that form of sensation is too dangerous. Though I hate police censorship of books and made a public protest against it, I must admit that some of these recent novels were not much this side of pornography.

Now and again a novel like The Cruel Sea leaps into a prodigious sale. The lucky author enjoys a rich reward, increased almost certainly by the vast publicity and payments of film and television rights. That happens only once now and again. More often, but still uncertainly, a new writer has his novel chosen by one of the book clubs and is assured of a big sale. The odds on this are slightly better than the chance of winning a prize in the “Pools.” Failing this luck, the novelist without an established reputation, which has given him a faithful public, is frozen out. His sales are meagre and do not provide a living wage. He must find some other way of keeping a roof over his head and avoiding under-nourishment.

In any case, whatever an author earns is apt to turn into fairy gold. The officers of the Inland Revenue fasten upon him with courtesy and kindness—“we beg to remind you”—and by the time he has paid his Income Tax and Surtax he wonders how he can economise. Shall he sell his car? Shall he give up smoking cigarettes? For the author is naked to the slings and arrows of the social system in this so-called Welfare State. Unlike business men he has no “cover,” as they call it. He cannot put his car down to office expenses. He cannot charge up his way of living on a high scale, apart from reasonable expenses, to the office account. He has no loss on one business which he can set against the profits on another, unless he buys a farm and has the genius to run it at a loss.

This same lack of “cover” applies also to artists, actors and barristers. My old friend Forbes-Robertson was worried about his Income Tax and had a visit from the local inspector. All was well, but Forbes-Robertson in a nervous way kept putting his long, thin, sensitive hand up to his jaw. Upon leaving, the Income Tax official, who had been very courteous, hesitated at the door for a moment and said, “Excuse me, Sir Johnston, but have you paid tax for the crest on your signet ring?”

Fairy gold? I earned a lot of it on a lecture tour in the United States—so much so that I was ashamed of fleecing the American public for my poor oratory. I need not have worried. My lecture agent took 40 per cent. The American government took, let me say, 20 per cent. (I have forgotten the exact amount), and when I returned to England the government took more than 50 per cent. of the remainder.

While I was in America for a time during the Second World War I had to come to the aid of some relatives who had gone over to save the children from German bombing but were now penniless.

I had money owing to me in the United States for the sale of books, and in entire innocence drew it out for this rescue work. From certain remarks made to me by friends I became uneasy about what I was doing. I went to see our Treasury representative in Washington to consult him on the subject. He was a most charming man and quite sympathetic, but he uttered some very terrible words.

“My dear sir, after what you have told me I can only say that you are committing a crime by every breath you breathe, if you go on drawing out dollars and spending them here.”

“I can’t let my family die on a dirt road in Massachusetts,” I told him.

It was a crime during the war to use the money one earned in the United States for any purpose whatever in that country.

When I came back to England I went to see my literary agent. He thumbed through an official-looking book and spoke thoughtfully.

“I don’t think you’ll be brought up at Bow Street,” he told me. “I think it’ll be the Guildhall.”

“I don’t want to be brought up anywhere!” I answered miserably.

However, I need not have worried, for my crime was overlooked.

Several authors I know—highly successful—avoid the rapacity of the tax collectors by living abroad for six months in the year. They have villas on the Riviera and bask in sunshine and drink little golden liquids on their terraces. Others migrate to the Channel Islands or the West Indies. I would not care for that exile and prefer to stay in England, even though I have to pay my Income Tax. For years and years I have contributed, like most others, to the upkeep of the Government who leave me hardly enough to make both ends meet. As I walk through my village people nudge each other and say (I have been told), “How does he spend all his money? He must be rolling in wealth!”

At my advanced age and after a lifetime of moderate success I ought to be able to push my old typewriter into the dustbin, use the last of my typewriting paper for spills, play chess with old friends, paint little pictures, mug up a bit of Greek, and read all the books I ought to have read before.

No such luck! I have to write another book to pay my next instalment of Income Tax. Oh, lord! Supposing my ideas give out!

It’s dangerous to be an author—young or, worse still, old.