Dreiser wrote with great facility by hand—swiftly and with few revisions. A secretary prepared a typed copy, which began the process—particularly if the work was a novel—of a lengthy and tortuous series of revisions. The typist herself corrected spelling, grammar, and (less frequently) sentence construction. Friends and lovers would then be asked to read the typescript, with requests to give special attention to possible cuts and revised conclusions. (Dreiser's initial versions of his novels were usually over-long and he was almost always uncertain about the endings of his novels.) Dreiser throughout this process of revision acted as editor-inchief, selecting some revisions and rejecting others, all the while adding other material as he proceeded. Finally, after submission of the book, the publisher's editors subjected the manuscript to an additional major revision, with Dreiser again acting as final arbiter of recommended changes.

Many of the secretary/lovers or close friends participating in this editorial process commented briefly on the creation of a particular work in their more general recollections of Dreiser present elsewhere in this book. (See especially Marguerite Tjader's detailed account of the revision of The Bulwark, at pp. 129–31.) The recollections provided in this section are confined to self-contained specific aspects of Dreiser's craftsmanship— his desire for emotional authenticity in his material, his ease and variety of composition, and his convoluted revision practices.

George Jean Nathan

The Intimate Notebooks of George Jean Nathan

Of all the writers whom I know intimately, Dreiser is the only one who actually enjoys the physical business of writing. Whereas the rest of these men hate the actual business of putting their thoughts and inspirations upon paper, complain bitterly of the dreadful chore that literary composition is, and do all sorts of things to try to divert themselves from the misery that envelops them when they sit down to their desks, Dreiser would rather write than do anything else. He looks forward to the day's job as another writer looks impatiently ahead to the hour when it will be finished. “I am a writer; I like to write; and I am wretched when I don't write,” he has told me. “If I don't produce three thousand words a day, I'm unhappy.”