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!

Detective novels

October 5th., 1929. Cadogan Square, London.

I read the last 200 pages of Gaboriau's "L'Affaire Lerouge" this afternoon. I must have read it first as a boy, in English. My previous last perusal of the original French was in 1916. Now I have finished it again. I read it in order to compare some new detective novels with an admitted masterpiece in that kind. There never was such a rage for detective novels as today. Our chief truly literary monthly, written mainly by highbrows for highbrows,. gives many pages each month to the appraisal of the latest detective fiction. "L'Affaire Lerouge" is out of sight better than the British favourites of the hour. I should like to think otherwise but I can't. It is better because it has a firmer grasp of plot and much more creative imagination.

The first 200 pages - the opening, the discovery of the crime, and the preliminary detective work - are simply brilliant. No flaw in them. But the novel as a whole is by no means perfect. Gaboriau even in his best novels has two faults. His use of coincidence amounts to impudence. There are two terrific coincidences in "L'Affaire Lerouge". One is that Tabaret the amateur detective happens to live in the same house as a group of people intimately and vitally connected with the crime! The other coincidence is that Daburon, the examining magistrate, happens also to be connected with the same above-mentioned small group of people.

These enormities would ruin any fairly good detective novel. But Gaboriau by his immense force of creative imagination, carries them triumphantly off. He compels you to say to yourself - "Well, it was extremely odd that things fell out so, and extremely convenient for the author, but they did fall out so. And that's all there is to it!"

I have been in Hampshire for the weekend enjoying the last fling of this Indian Summer. Stayed at Fordingbridge which is a pleasant small town on the edge of the New Forest with an impressive bridge over the Avon. An enjoyable walk in the Forest last Thursday for about 3 hours - easy walking, varied scenery and lots to look at. Then on Friday down to the coast near Keyhaven for a stroll by the marshes which were alive with all manner of birds. I was particularly taken with the Lapwings, showing themselves to great effect in the sunshine. Whilst away I re-read Haggard's "Heart of the World", a typical tale of wonder and derring-do set in Central America. Haggard only really has one plot which he sets in various exotic locations, but good for a light read away from business. 

Sensational ideas

Sunday, March 27th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Just now I am spending several days in the utmost tranquillity. 

I have gradually seen that my sensational yarn must be something remarkably out of the common, and that therefore i must take the greatest care over the conception. I found that ideas for it did not come easily. I did not, however, 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 a 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.

Émile Gaboriau (1832 – 1873), was a French writer, novelist, and journalist, and a pioneer of detective fiction. After publishing some novels and miscellaneous writings, he found his real gift in L'Affaire Lerouge (1866). The book, which was Gaboriau's first detective novel, introduced an amateur detective. It also introduced a young police officer named Monsieur Lecoq, who was the hero in three of Gaboriau's later detective novels. The character of Lecoq was based on a real-life thief turned police officer, Eugène François Vidocq (1775–1857), whose own memoirs, Les Vrais Mémoires de Vidocq, mixed fiction and fact. The book was published in "Le Siècle" and at once made his reputation. Gaboriau gained a huge following, but when Arthur Conan Doyle created Sherlock Holmes, Monsieur Lecoq's international fame declined. Gaboriau's books were generally well received. About the "Le Crime d'Orcival", Harper's wrote in 1872 "Of its class of romance - French sensational - this is a remarkable and unique specimen".

The weather being extremely uncertain I have been unable to get out much, and so my existence has been most extraordinarily placid. I go to bed one night, and then the next night, and there seems scarcely five minutes in between.

Additionally for March 27th., see 'War nerves'

Lunch at Sidney and Beatrice Webb's today. (See also 'Strolling about - February 4th.) Webb said his wife couldn't sleep on account of the war news, and he had to exaggerate his usual tranquil optimism in order to keep the household together. It was one of the rare human touches I have noticed in the said household. However, they were soon off on to the misdeeds of the Reconstruction Committee. I was told that certain of the staff of the 'Department of Information' had resigned when Beaverbrook was appointed minister over them, refusing to serve under 'that ignorant man'. They won, and were transferred to the Foreign Office - one more instance of the hand-to-mouthism of Ll. George. Went to Reform Club to see papers. Massingham was so gloomy he could scarcely speak. (See also 'A curious mixture' - March 15th.) The brothers McKenna came in, intensely pessimistic. I was rather ashamed of them. Spender's two articles in the Westminster were A1 for fortitude and wisdom. I think more and more highly of this man. (See also 'Writers for Peace - February 11th.)