My reason for writing stories is to give myself the satisfaction of visualising more clearly
and detailedly and stably the vague, elusive, fragmentary impressions of wonder, beauty, and
adventurous expectancy which are conveyed to me by certain sights (scenic, architectural, atmospheric,
etc.), ideas, occurrences, and images encountered in art and literature. I choose weird stories
because they suit my inclination best—one of my strongest and most persistent wishes being
to achieve, momentarily, the illusion of some strange suspension or violation of the galling
limitations of time, space, and natural law which for ever imprison us and frustrate our curiosity
about the infinite cosmic spaces beyond the radius of our sight and analysis. These stories
frequently emphasise the element of horror because fear is our deepest and strongest emotion,
and the one which best lends itself to the creation of nature-defying illusions. Horror and
the unknown or the strange are always closely connected, so that it is hard to create a convincing
picture of shattered natural law or cosmic alienage or “outsideness” without laying
stress on the emotion of fear. The reason why
time plays a great part in so many of my
tales is that this element looms up in my mind as the most profoundly dramatic and grimly terrible
thing in the universe.
Conflict with time seems to me the most potent and fruitful theme
in all human expression.

While my chosen form of story-writing is obviously a special and perhaps a
narrow one, it is none the less a persistent and permanent type of expression, as old as literature
itself. There will always be a small percentage of persons who feel a burning curiosity about
unknown outer space, and a burning desire to escape from the prison-house of the known and the
real into those enchanted lands of incredible adventure and infinite possibilities which dreams
open up to us, and which things like deep woods, fantastic urban towers, and flaming sunsets
momentarily suggest. These persons include great authors as well as insignificant amateurs like
myself—Dunsany, Poe, Arthur Machen, M. R. James, Algernon Blackwood, and Walter de la
Mare being typical masters in this field.

As to how I write a story—there is no one way. Each one of my tales has
a different history. Once or twice I have literally written out a dream; but usually I start
with a mood or idea or image which I wish to express, and revolve it in my mind until I can
think of a good way of embodying it in some chain of dramatic occurrences capable of being recorded
in concrete terms. I tend to run through a mental list of the basic conditions or situations
best adapted to such a mood or idea or image, and then begin to speculate on logical and naturally
motivated explanations of the given mood or idea or image in terms of the basic condition or
situation chosen.

The actual process of writing is of course as varied as the choice of theme
and initial conception; but if the history of all my tales were analysed, it is just possible
that the following set of rules might be deduced from the
average procedure:

(1) Prepare a synopsis or scenario of events in the order of their absolute
occurrence —not the order of their narration. Describe with enough fulness to cover
all vital points and motivate all incidents planned. Details, comments, and estimates of consequences
are sometimes desirable in this temporary framework.

(2) Prepare a second synopsis or scenario of events—this one in order
of
narration (not actual occurrence), with ample fulness and detail, and with notes as
to changing perspective, stresses, and climax. Change the original synopsis to fit if such a
change will increase the dramatic force or general effectiveness of the story. Interpolate or
delete incidents at will—never being bound by the original conception even if the ultimate
result be a tale wholly different from that first planned. Let additions and alterations be
made whenever suggested by anything in the formulating process.

(3) Write out the story—rapidly, fluently, and not too critically—following
the
second or narrative-order synopsis. Change incidents and plot whenever the developing
process seems to suggest such change, never being bound by any previous design. If the development
suddenly reveals new opportunities for dramatic effect or vivid storytelling, add whatever is
thought advantageous—going back and reconciling the early parts to the new plan. Insert
and delete whole sections if necessary or desirable, trying different beginnings and endings
until the best arrangement is found. But be sure that all references throughout the story are
thoroughly reconciled with the final design. Remove all possible superfluities—words,
sentences, paragraphs, or whole episodes or elements—observing the usual precautions about
the reconciling of all references.

(4) Revise the entire text, paying attention to vocabulary, syntax, rhythm
of prose, proportioning of parts, niceties of tone, grace and convincingness or transitions
(scene to scene, slow and detailed action to rapid and sketchy time-covering action and vice
versa. . . . etc., etc., etc.), effectiveness of beginning, ending, climaxes, etc.,
dramatic suspense and interest, plausibility and atmosphere, and various other elements.

(5) Prepare a neatly typed copy—not hesitating to add final revisory
touches where they seem in order.

The first of these stages is often purely a mental one—a set of conditions
and happenings being worked out in my head, and never set down until I am ready to prepare a
detailed synopsis of events in order of narration. Then, too, I sometimes begin even the actual
writing before I know how I shall develop the idea—this beginning forming a problem to
be motivated and exploited.

There are, I think, four distinct types of weird story; one expressing a
mood or feeling, another expressing a
pictorial conception, a third expressing a
general situation, condition, legend, or intellectual conception, and a fourth explaining
a
definite tableau or specific dramatic situation or climax. In another way, weird tales
may be grouped into two rough categories—those in which the marvel or horror concerns
some
condition or
phenomenon, and those in which it concerns some
action of
persons in connexion with a bizarre condition or phenomenon.

Each weird story—to speak more particularly of the horror type—seems
to involve five definite elements: (a) some basic, underlying horror or abnormality—condition,
entity, etc.—, (b) the general effects or bearings of the horror, (c) the mode of manifestation—object
embodying the horror and phenomena observed—, (d) the types of fear-reaction pertaining
to the horror, and (e) the specific effects of the horror in relation to the given set of conditions.

In writing a weird story I always try very carefully to achieve the right mood
and atmosphere, and place the emphasis where it belongs. One cannot, except in immature pulp
charlatan–fiction, present an account of impossible, improbable, or inconceivable phenomena
as a commonplace narrative of objective acts and conventional emotions. Inconceivable events
and conditions have a special handicap to overcome, and this can be accomplished only through
the maintenance of a careful realism in every phase of the story
except that touching
on the one given marvel. This marvel must be treated very impressively and deliberately—with
a careful emotional “build-up”—else it will seem flat and unconvincing. Being
the principal thing in the story, its mere existence should overshadow the characters and events.
But the characters and events must be consistent and natural except where they touch the single
marvel. In relation to the central wonder, the characters should shew the same overwhelming
emotion which similar characters would shew toward such a wonder in real life. Never have a
wonder taken for granted. Even when the characters are supposed to be accustomed to the wonder
I try to weave an air of awe and impressiveness corresponding to what the reader should feel.
A casual style ruins any serious fantasy.

Atmosphere, not action, is the great desideratum of weird fiction. Indeed,
all that a wonder story can ever be is
a vivid picture of a certain type of human mood.
The moment it tries to be anything else it becomes cheap, puerile, and unconvincing. Prime emphasis
should be given to
subtle suggestion—imperceptible hints and touches of selective
associative detail which express shadings of moods and build up a vague illusion of the strange
reality of the unreal. Avoid bald catalogues of incredible happenings which can have no substance
or meaning apart from a sustaining cloud of colour and symbolism.

These are the rules or standards which I have followed—consciously or
unconsciously—ever since I first attempted the serious writing of fantasy. That my results
are successful may well be disputed—but I feel at least sure that, had I ignored the considerations
mentioned in the last few paragraphs, they would have been much worse than they are.