The Second Book and the Second Play

Every successful writer knows that there are three pitfalls in the writing career: how to get the first book printed, or play produced; how to write a successful second one, provided the first effort proved a success; how, when one has eventually been classed as a “writer of (some) distinction,” to avoid being declared a has-been by critics and the younger set.

Clearing the first hurdle—seeing one's first literary effort make an immediate success—is rare. Many writers never make the grade. They toil on for years, grow bitter (“It ain't the talent, it's the pull”), resign, or end up in a tangential profession. Some continue to write; a few of these achieve a limited success after many years.

The third hurdle—retaining the medal awarded to “established writers”— is a problem frequently discussed. “They don't want me any more,” said a bewildered man in this category. “I didn't change; the public did.” The topic is so well known that Arthur Schnitzler used it as the theme of his brilliant Last Masks. In this one-act play, a journalist is dying in the hospital, bitter and penniless. He asks the young interne for a favor: before dying, he wishes to see an old friend, a famous writer. During the waiting period, another moribund patient, an ex-actor suggests that they rehearse the expected interview. In this rehearsal, the journalist revenges himself on the successful writer by throwing in his face the disclosure that he had once had an affair with the writer's wife. When the famous man finally arrives, he is pitfully harassed. The younger generation is after his literary scalp, but “he will show them.” The dying journalist sees that his revenge is in good hands, and says nothing.

The second, the middle hurdle—continuation of success after initial public approval—has never been investigated. It is an empirical fact that the second published (or produced) work is generally a failure. By chance, I have had the opportunity to observe such situations analytically in a series of ca