s that significant matter cannot arouse a
reader's deepest interest unless it is presented to him effectively, nor
can relatively insignificant matter arouse whatever interest is
attainable by it unless it also is presented effectively. The writer of
a story must seek to invest it with reality in the eyes of a reader, and
his resources to perform this difficult task make up the body of the
technique of fiction.

It follows that the best story in point of executive artistry is the
story which realizes most fully the inherent capacity of its matter to
interest. However significant the content of a story, if the writer's
hand falter in execution, something of the fiction's appeal for a reader
will be lost.

The general aim of executive artistry or technique is to invest the
story with such reality that a reader will himself see so much of the
thing as is physical and feel so much of it as is emotional or
spiritual, for only thus can be evoked the full measure of interest
inherent in the matter. Unless the writer's words constitute in
themselves a primary spectacle and experience for a reader, instead of a
mere secondary relation, the story cannot have full effect. A reader
will not accept the mere say-so of the writer, who must spread upon his
page the very stuff of life itself, rather than mere words.

How difficult the task, it is unnecessary to dwell upon, but one thing
should be noted. This necessary power to precipitate reality, this
literary power, only infrequently involves writing in a "literary"
manner or style. The essence of literary power is to present the
particular matter fittingly, not artificially. If the particular story
concerns simple, everyday people and simple, everyday events, it should
be told in simple, everyday language, for such language will serve best
to precipitate the matter for a reader. Literary power is the power to
adapt the word to the matter, not the power of "fine" writing. Some
stories call for little verbal elaboration, while such a thing as "The
Fall of the House of Usher" exhausts the capacities of language, but
whatever the nature of any story, its writer's artistry and technical
capacity are measurable by the degree in which he succeeds in endowing
it with reality and verisimilitude, not by the verbal noise and agility
he makes and displays.

Verisimilitude, of course, is a relative term. The matter of the story
of everyday life is essentially tangible and concrete, and its wr