Diary entry for April 20, 1925
Transcript below
Monday, April 20, 1925
…. I like this London life in early summer—the streets sauntering square daunting & then if my books … were to be a success; if we could begin building at Monks, & put up wireless for Nelly, & get the Skeats to live at Shanks’ cottage—if—if—if— What will happen is some intensities of pleasure, some profound plunges of gloom. Bad reviews, being ignored; & then some delicious clap of complement. But really what I should like would be to have [thruppence] to buy a pair of rubber soled boots, & go for country walks on Sundays.
One thing in considering my state of mind now, seems to me beyond dispute, that I have at last, bored down into my oil well, & can’t scribble fast enough to bring it to surface. I have now at least 6 stories welling up in me, & feel, at last, that I can coin all my thoughts into words. Not but what an infinite number of problems remain; but I have never felt this rush & urgency before. I believe I can write much more quickly: if writing it is—this dash at the paper of a phrase, & then the typing & retyping—trying it over, the actual writing being now like the sweep of a brush; I fill it up afterwards. Now suppose I might become one of those interesting—I will not say great—but interesting novelists? Oddly , for all my vanity, I have not until now had much faith in my novels , or thought them my own expression.
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