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Ihei I MAGAZINE
Starring the Author
{Continued from page 37)
About him there is no pose, as one is apt to imagine there might be about a great author, but there is a something which reminds us of the phrase — "All men are boys at heart."
Wc had luncheon in their spacious dining-room, served by a white-coated butler. The warm noon-day sun filtered in thru the wide-flung windows, cheerily draped in Japanese stuff, whose predominating color scheme was delft blue. A sense of breadth and bigness and harmony pervaded the atmosphere.
Mr. and Mrs. Beach and I ate voraciously of hearty food. Here there was nothing that was trivial and everything that was wholesome.
We spoke of Rex Beach's numerous trips to Alaska, to South America. Frankly, I cannot remember all the . places. We worried over the dog Jeanne, who had brought ten little baby dogs into the world the night before and had killed two that morning. Mrs. Beach reminisced over their meeting and romance which occurred in Alaska, while Mr. Beach blasted our hopes of ever being a great genius by recounting his first experience in story writing; and, what is more important, ■ the selling of his first effort to Cosmopolitan.
It seems that a friend of his sold a short story to one of the magazines. When told about it, Rex Beach decided that he, too, ought to be able to turn one out and pick up some spare cash. No sooner said than done. Down he sat and wrote an adventure story, sent it to Cosmopolitan, and received a perfectly good check and a request for more.
Thus began a career.
But in analyzing the career of Rex Beach, one discovers the vast place that belongs to his wife. Ever since their marriage, eleven years ago, it is she who has been his constant companion. It is she who, upon receiving a telephone message, announcing plans for going to South Africa the next morning, has assured him that her suit-case and his would be ready. There was even one time when Rex Beach made up his mind to go to South America that he telephoned the news that he had bought trunks and a complete outfit for her at BonwittTeller's, New York, and that all his wife had to do was to come down and meet him at the train. She did — not knowing how long she was to be gone nor what he had provided, and they went into the wilderness together for six months, and Mrs. Beach found herself disporting in "gay reds and yellows and ingenue things." However, she never grumbled but enjoyed the adventure to the full.
Mr. Beach always talks over all his books and plans with the lady of his house and heart. He insists that he would never put a heroine in his novels if she didn't argue him into it.
"What do I know about women?" questions Rex Beach defiantly. "Whenever I write about them I make them either namby-pamby characters or so bad they ought not to be written about."
"But no one wants to read a book about men, my dear. The public wants romance," argues Mrs. Beach.
"I guess you're right," confesses her husband, and so a story-book heroine is born.
"Oh, but she would never do that," says Mrs. Beach, upon hearing the story as the heroine grows.
"What would she do?" queries the author.
A few quiet suggestions from his wife and the lady of the story completes her fictionary life safely.
Mr. Beach writes all his stories in longhand and becomes mentally and physically exhausted when he has finished a novel. At that stage he invariably becomes depressed and, as he stalks up and down his study like a caged bear, he stoutly assures his wife over and over that he will never be able to write another line. And the pretty lady "encourages him, keeps all unpleasantness out of the way, makes suggestions, even offers plots — and before he knows it the creative mind of the man is at work once more on a new and perhaps a bigger story.
All of this inauspiciously culled information interested me vastly. I was in the presence of a perfect romance and the very thought of toying with trivialities such as questions about pictures was almost unthinkable.
-'Why is it," said I dutifully, "that authors have not been writing directly for the screen?"
"One reason, of course," said Mr. Beach, "is the way they have been treated. Their best plots have had their situations stolen out of them and used later without acknowledgment. I know of companies who used a card file for that very purpose. Any unusual idea was copied, filed, and the original manuscript returned. Then when a new plot was needed, some one in the scenario department would pick out these carefully filed ideas of other people's brains and form them into an 'original photoplay.' Then, too, authors have been so wretchedly paid that up to now it has scarcely been worth while considering the screen as a market for original scripts, but more important than all is the fact that, after all, the writing of a photoplay or a synopsis is not the art we love; we love the careful rounding out of our characters and the nice turning of a phrase.
"Nevertheless, I am greatly interested in the making of pictures and, at last, am doing it the way I have always wished to. We are producing six of my stories this year, which will be released thru the Goldwyn Company. The first, you know of course, is 'Laughing Bill Hyde.' We are starring the story, you know. When they started to film Bill Hyde, we had difficulty thinking of an actor who would fit the part. We never would have found one if it had not been for Mrs. Beach. She suggested Will Rogers, the famous cowboy actor. Even then we could scarcely ha*'e persuaded him to enter pictures, only — Mrs. Beach did that too. And I want to tell you that that boy is a wonder. I am willing to predict that he has the makings of one of the biggest screen stars."
There followed a golden hour in the long, deep living-room, with its tiers upon tiers of books, where Rex Beach, stretched in one of his man-sized chairs, puffed happily at his pipe and told about his various journeyings, his novels, and how his characters came to life as he wrote.
{Continued on page 112)
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