In the end, the advice he gives his fellow writers comes from the "felt fact" of his daily, minute-by-minute struggle to keep writing, to have something worthwhile to say, and to keep living at the same time. What makes him so very attractive as a mentor is that he wants it alclass="underline" friends, good company, excursions to the country, travel, theater, music, good conversation, family, love, flirtations. He is the master multi-tasker, juggling medicine and writing short stories, plays, and nonfiction. He takes a vital part in the life of his community, pitching in during cholera epidemics, building schools, donating time and talent to philanthropic causes, all the while supporting his parents and siblings. He is always "at home" to guests and patients. Somehow, even with his delicate health, he figures out how to make his art happen. He does not agonize or problematize. As the letters reprinted in this volume will show, he staunchly believes that practice makes perfect. Habit is the engine of success. Good habits produce good results. Being a productive writer is no more complicated than maintaining good hygiene habits. Brush your teeth twice a day and you'll have a healthy mouth. Write an hour a day and you'll have a book.
HOW TO WRITE LIKE
CHEKHOV
part ONE: theory No Plot, No Ending
GENERAL QUESTIONS
why write?
Why I Write
Letter to Maxim Gorky,1 Yalta, January 18, 1899
Your words about locomotives, rails, and noses getting stuck, are charming but quite unjust. If noses do get stuck it is not because of writing; quite the other way around: writing is the result of sticking one's nose into it and having nowhere else to go.
Neither for Fame nor Profit
Letter to Alexei Suvorin,2 Moscow, December 23,1888
It makes as much sense to write for [critics] as it does to ask someone suffering from a cold to smell flowers. There are times when I get truly discouraged. For whom and to what end do I write? For the public? But I have never actually seen this public and have less faith in its existence than in ghosts: it is uneducated and bad mannered, and even at its best treats us unscrupulously and insincerely. I have no idea whether this public even needs me. Burenin3 says that it does not need me and that I am wasting my time, but meanwhile the Academy has awarded me a prize; so, what does it all mean?4 Is it money I want? But I have never had money, and because I am not used to having any, I am quite indifferent to it. I simply cannot make myself work for money. Is it praise I want? Praise only irritates me. An entire crowd of littкrateurs, students, Yevreynov, Pleshcheyev, old maids, etc., heaped praise on my "An Attack of Nerves," but only Grigorovich noticed my description of the first snowfall.5 Etc. etc. If only we had worthwhile critics, then I could be reassured that I am collecting material—whether good or bad doesn't matter—and that I am as necessary to those who devote themselves to studying life, as a planet is to the astronomer. If this were the case, then I would throw myself into my work and know that it has a purpose. As things stand now, however, you, Muravlin, some other kindred spirits, and I are like madmen writing books and plays for nothing more than our own pleasure.6 One's pleasure, to be sure, is a fine thing: one feels it as long as one's writing, but what about when one's done writing? What then? ...Entire populations, religions, languages, and cultures have vanished without a trace because there were no historians or biologists to record their existence. In precisely the same way scores of lives and works of art are disappearing right before our eyes because there is absolutely no criticism.
On Gaiety and Gloomy Tales
Letter to Lydia Avilova,7 Nice, October 6, 1897
You complain that my characters are gloomy. This, alas, is not my fault! That is just how they turn out, without my doing it on purpose, and while I am writing, it never occurs to me that I might be depressing. At any rate, while I am working I am always in a good mood. It has been said that gloomy, melancholy people always write in a cheery way, whereas cheery people turn out writing that always manages to induce gloom. I, you see, have a joyous disposition; or, at least, I have spent the first thirty years of my life having fun, as they say.
The Laws of Nature
Letter to Alexandra Khotyaintseva,8 Nice, November 26,1897 I have noticed still another law of nature: the more fun I am having, the more depressing my stories turn out.
The Desire to Write, the Desire to Live
Letter to Alexander Chekhov, Melikhovo,9 April 15, 1894 I do not feel like writing, and besides, it is difficult to combine the desire to live with the desire to write.
for whom should one write?
Forget Yourself
Letter to AleXander Chekhov, Moscow, February 20, i883
All you need to do is be more honest with yourself: throw yourself overboard into everything, everywhere; do not make yourself the hero of your own novel; forget yourself— if only for half an hour. You have written a story in which a young married couple spends an entire dinner doing nothing but kissing, whining, and talking baby talk They do
not say a single sensible thing, just sweet nothings! You did not write this for the reader...you wrote this because you yourself enjoy this silly chatter. If, on the other hand, you were to describe the dinner, how they ate, what they ate, what the cook looked like; if you were to show your hero's vulgarity, the satisfaction he takes in his own idle happiness, and the vulgarity of your heroine, in all the ridiculousness of her love for that overstuffed, overfed, napkin-festooned
goose of a husband To be sure, everyone likes to see well-
fed, contented people, but to describe them one must do more than tell us what they talk about and how many times they kiss. . Something else is needed here: a distance from that entirely personal impression that the happiness of new- lyweds always makes on those who have not yet turned cynical.. Subjectivity is a terrible thing. If for no other reason, it is terrible because it gives away the novice writer in all his shortcomings.
The Writer's Audience
Letter to Alexei Suvorin, Moscow, December 26, 1888
You say one should not write for critics, but for the public, and that it is too early for me to start complaining. I would like to think, of course, that I am in fact working for the public, but how do I know that is what I am actually doing? I myself get no satisfaction from my work—maybe because it is trivial or for some other reason. The public (please note that I did not call it "base"), in the meantime, treats us dishonestly and insincerely and will never tell us the truth, so there's actually no way of knowing whether it needs me or not. While it might be too early for me to complain, it is never too early to ask whether what I am doing is serious work or just a game. The critics say nothing, the public lies, and my own sense tells me I am wasting my time on nonsense. Am I complaining? I do not remember the tone of my letter, but if I am complaining, I am doing it not just for myself, but also for all our writing brethren, for whom I feel infinite pity.