CONSIDERABLY SOBERED--THE POWER OF WRITING--THE TEMPTER--THE HUNGRY
TALENT--WORK CONCLUDED
Rather late in the morning I awoke; for a few minutes I lay still,
perfectly still; my imagination was considerably sobered; the scenes and
situations which had pleased me so much over night appeared to me in a
far less captivating guise that morning. I felt languid and almost
hopeless--the thought, however, of my situation soon roused me. I must
make an effort to improve the posture of my affairs; there was no time to
be lost; so I sprang out of bed, breakfasted on bread and water, and then
sat down doggedly to write the life of Joseph Sell.
It was a great thing to have formed my plan, and to have arranged the
scenes in my head, as I had done on the preceding night. The chief thing
requisite at present was the mere mechanical act of committing them to
paper. This I did not find at first so easy as I could wish--I wanted
mechanical skill; but I persevered, and before evening I had written ten
pages. I partook of some bread and water; and before I went to bed that
night, I had completed fifteen pages of my life of Joseph Sell.
The next day I resumed my task--I found my power of writing considerably
increased; my pen hurried rapidly over the paper--my brain was in a
wonderfully teeming state; many scenes and visions which I had not
thought of before were evolved, and as fast as evolved, written down;
they seemed to be more pat to my purpose, and more natural to my history,
than many others which I had imagined before, and which I made now give
place to these newer creations: by about midnight I had added thirty
fresh pages to my _Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell_.
The third day arose--it was dark and dreary out of doors, and I passed it
drearily enough within; my brain appeared to have lost much of its former
glow, and my pen much of its power; I, however, toiled on, but at
midnight had only added seven pages to my history of Joseph Sell.
On the fourth day the sun shone brightly--I arose, and, having
breakfasted as usual, I fell to work. My brain was this day wonderfully
prolific, and my pen never before or since glided so rapidly over the
paper; towards night I began to feel strangely about the back part of my
head, and my whole system was extraordinarily affected. I likewise
occasionally saw double--a tempter now seemed to be at work within me.
'You had better leave off now for a short space,' said the tempter, 'and
go out and drink a pint of beer; you have still one shilling left--if you
go on at this rate, you will go mad--go out and spend sixpence, you can
afford it, more than half your work is done.' I was about to obey the
suggestion of the tempter, when the idea struck me that, if I did not
complete the work whilst the fit was on me, I should never complete it;
so I held on. I am almost afraid to state how many pages I wrote that
day of the life of Joseph Sell.
From this time I proceeded in a somewhat more leisurely manner; but, as I
drew nearer and nearer to the completion of my task, dreadful fears and
despondencies came over me.--It will be too late, thought I; by the time
I have finished the work, the bookseller will have been supplied with a
tale or a novel. Is it probable that, in a town like this, where talent
is so abundant--hungry talent too--a bookseller can advertise for a tale
or a novel, without being supplied with half a dozen in twenty-four
hours? I may as well fling down my pen--I am writing to no purpose. And
these thoughts came over my mind so often, that at last, in utter
despair, I flung down the pen. Whereupon the tempter within me
said--'And, now you have flung down the pen, you may as well fling
yourself out of the window; what remains for you to do?' Why, to take it
up again, thought I to myself, for I did not like the latter suggestion
at all--and then forthwith I resumed the pen, and wrote with greater
vigour than before, from about six o'clock in the evening until I could
hardly see, when I rested for a while, when the tempter within me again
said, or appeared to say--'All you have been writing is stuff, it will
never do--a drug--a mere drug'; and methought these last words were
uttered in the gruff tones of the big publisher. 'A thing merely to be
sneezed at,' a voice like that of Taggart added; and then I seemed to
hear a sternutation,--as I probably did, for recovering from a kind of
swoon, I found myself shivering with cold. The next day I brought my
work to a conclusion.
But the task of revision still remained; for an hour or two I shrank from
it, and remained gazing stupidly at the pile of paper which I had written
over. I was all but exhausted, and I dreaded, on inspecting the sheets,
to find them full of absurdities which I had paid no regard to in the
furor of composition. But the task, however trying to my nerves, must be
got over; at last, in a kind of desperation, I entered upon it. It was
far from an easy one; there were, however, fewer errors and absurdities
than I had anticipated. About twelve o'clock at night I had got over the
task of revision. 'To-morrow for the bookseller,' said I, as my head
sank on the pillow. 'Oh me!'