Wednesday, March 28th., Rue de Calais, Paris.
I only keep this journal sufficiently to prove that I am still not keeping it. Sometimes it just seems to be too much of an effort. I ask myself who I am writing it for? But at others the words flow and I find that writing down what I have done, and especially how I feel about people and places, helps me get my mind in order. I will persevere.
I finished the seventeenth instalment of "The Sinews of War" today. Three more to do. This evening on my return to Paris from Moret I received in a letter from Phillpotts an adumbration of the plot for our next serial in collaboration. I am not at all sure that I can face another one. Not that it is hard, but I don't feel it is the sort of work I should be associated with. I am concerned that if I get a reputation as an author of 'potboilers' then my serious novels will not be taken seriously.
Lately, besides having the influenza, I have been occupied in putting my Moret flat into an artistically habitable condition. It is an activity I truly enjoy. How wonderful to have rooms of one's own! Growing up as I did in a large family, privacy was more or less unknown which is why, I think, that I value it so much now. Even when I marry I will insist on an inviolate study where I can arrange my books and furniture just as I like.
Yesterday morning in a second-hand shop in Moret I found a Louis XV commode in carved oak in excellent condition, and bought it for 45 fr. without bargaining. I also bought a rather worn Empire bookcase for 20 fr. Impossible to keep my journal while I am so preoccupied with the serial and with questions of cretonnes, carpets, and the arrangement of old furniture and purchasing of fresh.
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