Life was so strange and wonderful, filled with an immensity of problems, of dreams, and of heroic toils, and yet these stories dealt only with the commonplaces of life.

He felt the stress and strain of life, its fevers and sweats and wild insurgences--surely this was the stuff to write about! He wanted to glorify the leaders of forlorn hopes, the mad lovers, the giants that fought under stress and strain, amid terror and tragedy, making life crackle with the strength of their endeavor.

And yet the magazine short stories seemed intent on glorifying the Mr.Butlers, the sordid dollar- chasers, and the commonplace little love affairs of commonplace little men and women.

Was it because the editors of the magazines were commonplace?
he demanded.

Or were they afraid of life, these writers and editors and readers?
But his chief trouble was that he did not know any editors or writers.
And not merely did he not know any writers, but he did not know anybody who had ever attempted to write.