Finishing things

Tuesday, January 24th., Fulham Park Gardens, London.

Last night I finished my sensational novel, "The Curse of Love", fifty thousand words in exactly three months, with all my other work.The writing of it has enormously increased my facility, and I believe that now I could do a similar novel in a month. It is, of the kind, good stuff, well written and well contrived, and some of the later chapters are eally imagined and, in a way, lyrical. I found the business, after I had got fairly into it, easy enough, and I rather enjoyed it. I could comfortably write two and a half thousand words in half a day. It has only been written once, and on revision I have scarcely touched the original draft. Now I want to do two sensational short stories - and then to my big novel.

I was thnking in the night, in that reflective state that comes after a job is finished, that this time next year we shall be in a new century, and I shall be thirty three years old, and will I be fairly launched on my new career? Sometimes I feel confident, as if nothing can prevent me, sort of 'fated'. And at others (usually after a little too much to eat and drink) I am full of misgivings. Writing is a compulsion. I must write, as others must paint, or play music, but is it wise to make it the essential core of my life? And writing is a damned lonely business I find. In some ways my job as editor of Woman suits me, though I am always complaining about it. I write a good deal, concealed behind various pseudonyms, and yet have a regular routine and an income. Surely the role could be developed further and I might go on to edit bigger and better periodicals, or even newspapers. That would be the sensible course to follow. I think it is what my father would want me to do.