The creative process

Friday, March 25th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I spent a lot of yesterday afternoon in the Louvre picture galleries trying to get into a frame of mind sufficiently large and expansive for the creation of the central idea for my sensational romance. Many would-be artists copying. The chief result was a bad nervous headache, which did not, however, prevent me from eating well. I went to bed at 10, and had the idea for the 'scene' of the book in the middle of the night. How does this happen I wonder? Is part of our brain still working on a problem whilst we are otherwise asleep? Or perhaps more likely the total relaxation of sleep results in a sort of vacuum of the mind which is instantaneously filled by an idea as we turn our first thought back to the problem.

Just now I am spending several days in the utmost tranquility. I have gradually seen that my sensational yarn must be something remarkably out of the common, and therefore I must take the greatest care over the conception. I found that ideas for it did not come easily. I did not nowever force them. Then I had the idea for the 'scene' of the book. Then I thought I would buy and read Gaboriau's "Le Crime d'Orcival", of which I have heard so much, and see whether that would conduce to a 'flow' in me, as Balzac always does. It did, at once. 

It is I think the best elaborate long detective story that I have read. It contains much solid and serious stuff, is extremely ingenious and well-planned, and has real imagination. I have been reading this during the day and correcting proofs at night. My sensational work does not and would not in the least resemble Gaboriau's, and yet Gaboriau has filled me with big epic ideas for fundamental plot - exactly what I wanted. The central theme must be big, and it will be; all the rest is mere ingenuity, wit and skill. I have not yet finished reading the Gaboriau book. I read it and think of nothing, not asking notions to come; but they come and I am obliged to note them down.

The weather being extremely uncertain I have been unable to go out much, and so my existence has been quite extraordinarily placid. I go to bed one night, and then the next night, and there seems scarcely five minutes in between. Of course I am alone here in Paris, and I doubt anyone would notice my absence if I continued my 'hermit' existence. Quite comforting in a way. Also liberating. Suppose I conceived a crime and carried it out. Perhaps to carry out a crime isn't so dissimilar from constructing a plot for a book once the original conception is made. Perhaps I have read too much Gaboriau!