Monday, February 1st., Victoria Grove, London.
Today I took up my novel again, and after roughly scribbling 2,300 words in three hours, began actually to have a dim vision of some of the characters - at last! To 'get way on' there is nothing like seizing the pen and writing something, anything about one's characters. The blank page is such a daunting thing to contemplate and it seems to grow in size the more one looks at it. It is a mistake to try to get everything right before starting.
If I could spend every day as I have today spent today, happiness would be almost within grasp. A couple of hours editorial work at the office in the morning. After dinner I read myself to sleep with d'Annunzio's "Annales d'Anne", and when I woke I went to pay some money into the bank. Then I schemed out in my head the next chapter of my novel. Before tea Mrs. Sharpe came upstairs for a talk, a talk which continued for some time after tea was over. We talk entirely in French. Her suggestion, to improve my conversational ability as I have confided to her that it is my intention one day to live in Paris. She speaks French very well and I feel that I am improving under her tutelage.
From six to nine I worked fairly easily at my novel, drafting 2,300 words - a complete chapter. After supper, I opened a new copy of Arnold's "Essays in Criticism" (Second series) and read the essay on Tolstoy. I shall read myself to sleep (for the second time today) with Maria Edgeworth's "Belinda".
In spite of the laziest liver in the world, I am well nigh content with myself tonight.
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