is a
roped arena where you wrestle, catch as catch can, for the honors
bestowed by experience.

This experience, painfully acquired, should be backed up by an
elementary knowledge of salesmanship. Super-sensitive souls there are
who shudder at the mere mention of the word; and why this is so is not
difficult to understand--their minds are poisoned with sentimental
misapprehensions. Get rid of those misapprehensions just as swiftly as
you can. If you have something to sell, be it hardware or a manuscript,
common sense should dictate that you learn a little about how to sell
it.

Expert interviewers prepare themselves both for their topic and their
man before they go into a confab--a practice which should be followed to
some extent by every writer who sets out to interview an editor about a
manuscript. What you have to offer should be prepared to suit the needs
of the editor to whom the contribution is addressed. So you should study
your magazine just as carefully as you do the subject about which you
are writing. In your interview with the editor or in the letter which
takes the place of an interview, state briefly whatever should be useful
to his enlightenment. That is all. There you have the first principles
of what is meant by "an elementary knowledge of salesmanship." If you
don't know what you are talking about or anything about the possible
needs of the man to whom you are talking, how can you expect to interest
him in any commodity under heaven? Say nothing that you don't
believe--he won't believe it, either. Never fool him. If you do, you may
sell him once, but never again.

There is no dark art to salesmanship; it is simply a matter of
delivering the goods in a manner dictated by courtesy, sincerity, common
sense and common honesty. Be yourself without pose, and don't forget
that the editor--whether you believe it or not--is just as "human" as
you are, and quick to respond to the best that there is in you. Shake
off the delusion that you need to play the "good fellow" to him, like
the old-fashioned type of drummer in a small town. Simply and sincerely
and straight from the shoulder--also briefly, because he is a busy
man--state your case, leave your literary goods for inspection and go
your way.

He will judge you and your manuscript on merits; if he does not, he will
not long continue to be an editor. The two greatest curses of his
existence (I speak from experience) are the poses and the incurable
loqua