How to Write Like Chekhov

For My Contemporaries

Letter to Dmitry Grigorovich, January 12, 1888 For my debut in the thick journals,¹⁰ I have chosen the steppe, which has not been described for a long time.. All my pages have come out compact, as though condensed; impressions crowd one atop the other, pile up, squeeze up against each other; the scenes or, as you call them, the flashes, are jammed up against each other, without a break, and so are quite fatiguing. The general effect is not of a picture but of a dry, detailed catalog of impressions, something like an outline; instead of giving the reader an artistic, integrated picture of the steppe, I produce an "encyclopedia of the steppe." The first try is a flop. However, I am not discouraged. Who knows, even an encyclopedia might come in handy. Perhaps it might open the eyes of my contemporaries and show them the wealth and rich veins of beauty that still remain untouched and the boundless scope still open to the Russian artist. If my little tale reminds my colleagues of the steppe they have forgotten; if even one of the motifs I have lightly and roughly sketched prompts some poet, however insignificant, to think, that will be all the reward I need. You, I know, will understand my steppe and for its sake will be willing to forgive the sins I have unintentionally committed. My sins are unintentional because, as I am only now beginning to understand, I do not yet know how to write longer pieces.

Know Your Own Readers

Letter to Maxim Gorky, Moscow, June 27,1899¹¹ You plan to walk across Russia? I wish you a pleasant journey, all the best, although it does strike me that as long as you're still hale and hearty, you might be better off studying the people who actually read your work rather than spending a couple of years walking or riding third-class carriages.

If, afterwards, you still feel like taking that walk, by all means, go.

Writing for Connoisseurs

Letter to Yakov Polonsky, Moscow, January 18,1888 By the way, I am just now at work on a long story that will probably appear in the Northern Herald.¹² In my novella, I describe the steppe, the people of the steppe, the birds, the nights, storms, etc. I'm enjoying the work, but I do worry that because I lack experience in writing long pieces my tone might be inconsistent, I grow tired, I don't say everything that needs to be said, and I am not being serious enough. There are many passages that my critics and my readers will not understand, will find trivial, undeserving of attention; but I take pleasure in anticipating that these same passages will be understood and appreciated by two or three literary connoisseurs, and that is enough for me. Overall, however, my little novella does not come up to my expectations. It is clunky, tedious, and too specialized. For today's readers a topic such as the steppe, with its natural landscape and its people, is too specialized and insignificant.

what to write, how to write

How Not to Write

From The Notebooks of Doctor Chekhov,_p. 125

Spare me, Lord, from judging or talking about things I do not know and do not understand!

Without Plot or Ending

Letter to AleXander Chekhov, Babkino, June 16, 1887 Congratulations on your debut in the New Times.¹³ However, tell me why you did not pick a serious subject? Your form is splendid, but your characters are wooden, and your subject is trite. Any ol' hi skooler coudov dun betta. . You should take something ordinary, something from everyday life, without a plot or ending.

The Banalities of Daily Life

Letter to AleXei Suvorin, Moscow, December 18,1893 Potapenko's play enjoyed modest success.¹⁴ The play does have a certain something, but this something is lost in the clutter of various absurd, extraneous elements (such as, for example, the medical consultation, which is ludicrously unrealistic) and declamations with a Shakespearean flavor. Ukrainians are a mulish lot; they are impressed with the magnificence of their own pronouncements and value their sublime Ukrainian truths to such an extent that they are prepared to sacrifice artistic verisimilitude and even common sense. There is even a saying for this, "The torch of truth burns the hand which bears it." The most successful was the second act: here the banalities of daily life did manage to break through the magniloquence and high-falutin' truths.

Reading, Watching, Listening

Letter to Alexei Suvorin, Moscow, March 9,1890 Apropos Sakhalin.I want to write at least one or two hundred pages and thereby pay off some of my debt to medicine, toward which, as you know, I have behaved like a pig. I may not actually end up writing anything, but even so, the journey will not have lost any of its allure. By reading, watching, and listening I will have discovered and learned a great deal. I have not even left yet, but thanks to the books I've had to read I have learned much about things that everyone should know under penalty of forty lashes and that I've been too ignorant to not learn earlier.

All Kinds of Subjects

Letter to Maria Kiselyova,¹⁵ Moscow, September 29,1886 Write about all kinds of subjects: funny, pathetic, good, bad. Send [me] your stories, drafts, anecdotes, jokes, puns, etc. etc.

Don't Polish

Letter to Alexander Chekhov, Moscow, April 11, 1889

Don't smooth out the rough edges, don't polish; be clumsy and bold. Brevity is the sister of talent.

It's Not What I Saw, but How I Saw

Letter to Alexei Suvorin, SS Baikal, Tartar Strait,

September 11, 1890

I saw everything, so it is not a question of what I saw, but how I saw.

Cut Mercilessly

Letter to Alexei Suvorin, Moscow, February 6, 1889 My soul is filled with sloth and sense of freedom. This is my blood rushing to meet spring. However, I keep working. I am preparing material for my third volume. I am cutting mercilessly. A strange thing has happened: I have developed a mania for brevity. No matter what I read—my own or others' writing—everything strikes me as too long.

Literary Police

Letter to Maria Kiselyova, Moscow, January 14, 1887 There is no police force that could consider itself competent in the sphere of literature. I do agree: what with all the phonies constantly worming their way into literature, it is impossible to give up the muzzle and the knout. However, any way you look at it, there is no better literary police than the critic and the conscience of the author.