lot of the professional author could be. Many of the scribblers with whom
he dealt at Butterick were undoubtedly living from hand to mouth, angling
for the next writing assignment or book advance, occasionally enjoying fat
periods when money arrived but more often subsisting on short funds. Why
should Dreiser choose such a life?
He did so in part because he found the editorial work at Butterick enervat-
ing. His instincts were creative, not editorial, and he must have chafed under
the restrictions that govern any literary middleman. On a more elevated level,
he must have believed in himself and in his potential as a creator of fiction.
But just as surely he must also have thought that he now knew the profession
15
ja m e s l . w. w e s t i i i
of authorship well enough to make a decent living at it. He had located the
pitfalls: he had benefitted from his two earlier attempts at writing and had
learned how the mechanisms of the literary marketplace worked. He might
again fail to support himself and have to resort once more to editing, but he
must have vowed not to do so. Perhaps this time his talent, self-discipline,
and professional savvy would carry him through.
Dreiser had already written one novel, Sister Carrie, which had been issued and then all but suppressed by Doubleday, Page, and Company in 1900.
Frank Doubleday had published the book – but reluctantly, after it had been
accepted in his absence by Walter Hines Page, the junior partner in the firm.
Some reviews of Sister Carrie had appeared, but Doubleday had not followed them with advertising or other promotion, and the novel (which he called
“immoral”) had died on the backlist, much to Dreiser’s consternation. That
experience might have stopped a lesser writer from trying again, and indeed
it did deflect Dreiser from his true vocation for almost ten years. But in
the decade after 1900 he had managed to have Sister Carrie reprinted and successfully reintroduced into the literary marketplace. Its power as a work
of fiction had been recognized and was now being attested to by people
whose opinions carried weight. Dreiser had the beginnings of a second novel
called Jennie Gerhardt resting in a drawer at home. He believed that he could push that narrative through to completion and then go on to write
other novels. He had talked for years of returning to creative work; now
was the time to do it.
Dreiser decided to make a clean break: he not only resigned from his
position at Butterick but also separated from his wife, with whom he was
unhappy, and rented a room in the apartment of Elias Rosenthal, a respected
New York attorney who lived on Riverside Drive. There Dreiser took out
the incomplete draft of Jennie Gerhardt, picked up pen and fresh paper, and began what would in fact turn out to be a very successful third attempt
at a literary career. This time Dreiser stayed the course. He was able to
sustain himself artistically and financially for the rest of his life, a period of some thirty-five years. He never had to return to the toils of editing or to
earn money in any other way than from his own writing. His third try at
authorship lasted from 15 October 1910, the day he resigned from Butterick,
until 28 December 1945, the day he died.
As a young man, during his first stint as a professional writer, Dreiser had
made his living as a newspaperman. From June 1892 until November 1894
he had worked as a reporter for newspapers in Chicago, Cleveland, Toledo,
and Pittsburgh.1 In December 1894 he had come east to New York City,
hoping to catch on with a major newspaper there, but he had failed to find
steady work and had learned his first lesson in literary economics: there was
16
Dreiser and the profession of authorship
no safety net. Down to his last few dollars and without employment, he was
saved by his brother Paul Dresser, a vaudeville performer and songwriter
who rescued Theodore and put him on his feet again as the editor of a
magazine called Ev’ry Month, a vehicle for Paul’s sheet music. Theodore was told that he could fill the magazine with whatever fiction, poetry, articles,
and illustrations he wished. Guided only by these sketchy instructions, he
embarked in the fall of 1895 on his first stint of editing.2
Dreiser learned a good deal about professional writing during his two-
year tenure at Ev’ry Month. He cultivated friendships with authors and
illustrators; he also wrote a good deal of what was printed in the magazine
himself, either under his own name or under pseudonyms. Eventually he
grew weary of the deadlines, however, and quarreled with Paul’s associates,
so in the fall of 1897 he resigned from Ev’ry Month and set out a second time to support himself by writing. He became a magazine freelance and
did well at the work. From late 1897 until the end of 1900 he produced
numerous articles and interviews for such national magazines as Success, Ainslee’s, Cosmopolitan, Demorest’s, and Harper’s Monthly. Dreiser was good at this kind of writing: he was energetic and curious, able to juggle
several assignments at once, and willing to let editors shape his copy to their requirements. Some assignments were given to him by editors, but Dreiser
had good instincts about what the reading public might want to know, and
he thought up the topics for many of his articles himself.3
This second period of full-time authorship took an interesting turn in the
summer of 1899, when Dreiser allowed his friend Arthur Henry to talk
him into trying his hand at fiction. Dreiser completed four short stories that
summer, his first serious attempts at fictional narrative, and eventually sold
them all to paying magazines.4 Fiction had the advantage of not requiring
so much legwork and interviewing; it also dovetailed with Dreiser’s growing
conviction that he possessed talent for something other than journeyman
newspaper and magazine writing. In the early fall of 1899 he embarked on
Sister Carrie and finished it the following spring, though he stalled twice along the way.5 During this period he continued to turn out some magazine
writing in order to meet current expenses. Dreiser published Sister Carrie
in November 1900, but his subsequent difficulties with Doubleday, together
with other crises in his life, sent him spiraling into a long period of depression and debt – his second experience of literary poverty. By this time he was a
married man, and his troubles caused much privation and worry for him
and his wife in 1902 and 1903. He was bothered by writer’s block and, for
a time, toyed with ideas of suicide. In early 1904, after again having been
helped by his brother Paul, Dreiser emerged from this cul de sac, pulled
himself together, and re-entered the ranks of editors, rising fairly quickly
17
ja m e s l . w. w e s t i i i
to the position with Butterick.6 Thus in October 1910, with two attempts
under his belt, he must have known that his decision to put editing aside and
make a third try at authorship was risky.
When Dreiser made this decision there was nothing resembling a true
“profession of authorship” in America. (Indeed, there is not today.) Gen-
uine professions such as medicine and law require specialized education and
certification, usually earned by passing state-sanctioned examinations. Physi-
cians and attorneys, even in Dreiser’s time, worked within hierarchies and
held titles and ranked positions. They controlled very carefully who was
allowed to enter their professions, as they do today, and they belonged to
professional associations and adhered to written codes of ethics. Doctors
and lawyers used specialized vocabularies and commanded bodies of ex-
pertise that were unfamiliar to their patients and clients. Thus they created
monopolies on their particular kinds of labor and knowledge, an enormous
advantage in a capitalistic economy.7
Dreiser was certainly not entering any such professionalized job structure
when he cast loose from Butterick. He knew that he needed no advanced
degrees or legal certifications to declare himself a full-time writer. He knew
also that he could not aspire eventually to hold an impressive title or to
achieve high rank within an occupational hierarchy. And he was certainly
aware that neither he, nor any writer, held a monopoly on the printed word.
Like anyone else he could become an author simply by picking up a writing
implement and trying his luck. This time, however, Dreiser must have under-
stood fully what odds were against him. He must have known that full-time
authorship was in no way a true “profession.” In fact it most nearly ap-
proximated piece-work or cottage labor. The author produced individually
crafted items which were then offered to buyers in the marketplace. There
were no guarantees of employment or sales, and there were few prospects of
wealth. Indeed, as a full-time writer he would be vulnerable to most of the