A Writer's Diary (36 page)

Wednesday, November 4th

L. who has now read to the end of 1914, still thinks it extraordinarily good: very strange: very interesting: very sad. We discussed my sadness. But my difficulty is this: I cannot bring myself to believe that he is right. It may be simply that I exaggerated its badness, and therefore he now, finding it not so bad, exaggerates its goodness. If it is to be published, I must at once sit down and correct: how can I? Every other sentence seemed to me bad. But I am shelving the question till he has done, which should be tonight.

Thursday, November 5th

The miracle is accomplished. L. put down the last sheet about 12 last night; and could not speak. He was in tears. He says it is "a most remarkable book"—he
likes
it better than
The Waves
—and has not a spark of doubt that it must be published. I, as a witness, not only to his emotion but to his absorption, for he read on and on, can't doubt his opinion. What about my own? Anyhow the moment of relief was divine. I hardly know yet if I'm on my heels or head, so amazing is the reversal since Tuesday morning. I have never had such an experience before.

Monday, November 9th

I must make some resolutions about this book. I find it extremely difficult. I get into despair. It seems so bad. I can only cling to L.'s verdict. Then I get distracted: I tried, as an anodyne, to take up an article; a memoir; to review a book for
The Listener.
They make my mind race. I must fix it upon
The Years.
I must do my proofs—send them off. I
must
fix
my mind on it all the morning. I think the only way is to do that, and then let myself do something else between tea and dinner. But immerse in
The Years
all the morning—nothing else. If the chapter is difficult, concentrate for a short time. Then write here. But don't dash off into other writing till after tea. When it is done, we can always ask Morgan.

Tuesday, November 10th

On the whole it has gone better this morning. It's true my brain is so tired of this job it aches after an hour or less. So I must dandle it, and gently immerse it. Yes, I think it's good; in its very difficult way.

I wonder if anyone has ever suffered so much from a book as I have from
The Years.
Once out I will never look at it again. It's like a long childbirth. Think of that summer, every morning a headache, and forcing myself into that room in my nightgown; and lying down after a page: and always with the certainty of failure. Now that certainty is mercifully removed to some extent. But now I feel I don't care what anyone says so long as I'm rid of it. And for some reason I feel I'm respected and liked. But this is only the haze dance of illusion, always changing. Never write a long book again. Yet I feel I shall write more fiction—scenes will form. But I am tired this morning: too much strain and racing yesterday.

Monday, November 30th

There is no need whatever in my opinion to be unhappy about
The Years.
It seems to me to come off at the end. Anyhow, to be a taut, real, strenuous book. Just finished it; and feel a little exalted. It's different from the others of course: has I think more "real" life in it; more blood and bone. But anyhow, even if there are appalling watery patches, and a grinding at the beginning, I don't think I need lie quaking at nights. I think I can feel assured. This I say sincerely to myself; to hold to myself during the weeks of dull anticipation. Nor need I care much what people say. In fact I hand my compliment to that terribly depressed woman, myself, whose head ached so often; who was so entirely convinced a failure; for in spite of
everything I think she brought it off and is to be congratulated. How she did it, with her head like an old cloth, I don't know. But now for rest: and Gibbon.

Thursday, December 31st

There in front of me lie the proofs—the galleys—to go off today, a sort of stinging nettle that I cover over. Nor do I wish even to write about it here.

A divine relief has possessed me these last days—at being quit of it—good or bad. And, for the first time since February I should say my mind has sprung up like a tree shaking off a load. And I've plunged into Gibbon and read and read, for the first time since February, I think. Now for action and pleasure again and going about. I could make some interesting and perhaps valuable notes on the absolute necessity for me of my work. Always to be after something. I'm not sure that the intensiveness and exclusiveness of writing a long book is a possible state: I mean, if ever in future I do such a thing—and I doubt it—I will force myself to vary it with little articles. Anyhow, now I am not going to think Can I write? I am going to rush into unselfconsciousness and work: at Gibbon first; then a few little articles for America; then Roger and
Three Guineas.
Which of the two comes first, how to dovetail, I don't know. Anyhow even if
The Years
is a failure, I've thought considerably and collected a little hoard of ideas. Perhaps I'm now again on one of those peaks where I shall write two or three little books quickly; and then have another break. At least I feel myself possessed of skill enough to go on with. No emptiness. And in proof of this will go in, get my Gibbon notes and begin a careful sketch of the article.

Thursday, January 28th

Sunk once more in the happy tumultuous dream: that is to say began
Three Guineas
this morning and can't stop thinking it. My plan is to write out now, without more palaver, and think perhaps it might be roughed in by Easter; but I shall allow myself, make myself, scribble a little article or two between whiles. Then I hope to float over the horrid March 15th: wire today to say
Years
haven't reached America. I must plate myself against that sinking and mud. And so far as I can tell, this method is almost too effective.

and ended it it 12 Oct. 1937 (provisionally that is).

Thursday, February 18th

I have now written for three weeks at
Three Guineas
and have done 38 pages. Now I've used up that vein momently and want a few days change. At what? Can't at the moment think.

Saturday, February 20th

I turn my eyes away from the Press as I go upstairs, because there are all the review copies of
The Years
packed and packing. They go out next week: this is my last weekend of comparative peace. What do I anticipate with such clammy coldness? I think chiefly that my friends won't mention it; will turn the conversation rather awkwardly. I think I anticipate considerable lukewarmness among the friendly reviewers—respectful tepidity; and a whoop of Red Indian delight from the Grigs who will joyfully and loudly announce that this is the longdrawn twaddle of a prim prudish bourgeois mind, and say that now no one can take Mrs. W. seriously again. But violence I shan't so much mind. What I think I shall mind most is the awkwardness when I go, say to Tilton or Charleston, and they don't know what to say. And since we
shan't get away till June I must expect a very full exposure to this damp firework atmosphere. They will say it's a tired book; a last effort ... Well, now that I've written that down I feel that even so I can exist in that shadow. That is if I keep hard at work. And there's no lack of that. I discussed a book of illustrated incidents with Nessa yesterday; we are going to produce 12 lithographs for Christmas, printed by ourselves. As we were talking, Margery Fry rang up to ask me to see Julian Fry about Roger. So that begins to press on me. Then L. wants if possible to have
Three Guineas
for the autumn: and I have my Gibbon, my broadcast, and a possible leader on Biography to fill in chinks. I plan to keep out of literary circles till the mild boom is over. And this, waiting, under consideration, is after all the worst. This time next month I shall feel more at ease. And it's only now and then I mind now.

I suppose what I expect is that they'll say now Mrs. W. has written a long book all about nothing.

Sunday, February 21st

I'm off again, after five days lapse (writing
Faces and Voices
) on
Three Guineas:
after a most dismal hacking got a little canter and hope now to spin ahead. Odd that one sometimes does a transition quite quickly. A quiet day for a wonder—no one seen yesterday: so I went to Caledonian Market, couldn't find spoon shop: bought yellow gloves 3/- and stockings 1/- and so home. Started reading French again:
Misanthrope
and Colette's memoirs given me last summer by Janie: when I was in the dismal drowse and couldn't fix on that or anything. Today the reviewers (oh d——n this silly thought) have their teeth fixed in me; but what care I for a goosefeather bed, etc. In fact, once I get into the canter over
Three Guineas
I think I shall see only the flash of the white rails and pound along to the goal.

Sunday, February 28th

I'm so entirely imbued with
Three Guineas
that I can hardly jerk myself away to write here. (Here in fact I again dropped my pen to think about my next paragraph—universities)—how will that lead to professions and so on. It's a bad habit.

Sunday, March 7th

As will be seen on the last page my spiritual temperature went up with a rush; why I don't know, save that I've been having a good gallop at
Three Guineas.
Now I have broached the fatal week and must expect a sudden drop. It's going to be pretty bad, I'm certain; but at the same time I am convinced that the drop needn't be fatal: that is, the book may be damned, with faint praise; but the point is that I myself know why it's a failure, and that its failure is deliberate. I also know that I have reached my point of view, as writer, as being. As writer I am fitted out for another two books—
Three Guineas
and Roger (let alone articles): as being the interest and safety of my present life are unthrowable. This I have, honestly, proved this winter. It's not a gesture. And honestly the diminution of fame, that people aren't any longer enthusiastic, gives me the chance to observe quietly. Also I am in a position to hold myself aloof. I need never seek out anyone. In short either way I'm safe, and look forward, after the unavoidable tosses and tumbles of the next ten days, to a slow, dark, fruitful spring, summer and autumn. This is set down I hope once and for all. And please to remember it on Friday when the reviews come in.

We have sold 5,300 before publication.

Friday, March 12th

Oh the relief! L. brought the
Lit. Sup.
to me in bed and said It's quite good. And so it is; and
Time and Tide
says I'm a first rate novelist and a great lyrical poet. And I can already hardly read through the reviews: but feel a little dazed, to think then it's
not
nonsense; it does make an effect. Yet of course not in the least the effect I meant. But now, my dear, after all that agony, I'm free, whole; round: can go full ahead. And so stop this cry of content and sober joy. Off to M.H. Julian back today. I use my last five minutes before lunch to note that though I have slipped the gall and fret and despair even of the past few weeks wholly today, and shan't I think renew them; I have once more loaded myself with the
strain of
Three Guineas
, at which I have been writing hard and laboriously. So now I'm straining to draw that cart across the rough ground. It seems therefore that there is no rest; no sense of It's finished. One always harnesses oneself by instinct; and can't live without the strain. Now
The Years
will completely die out from my mind.

Car mended. But rain pouring.

Sunday, March 14th

I am in such a twitter owing to two columns in the
Observer
praising
The Years
that I can't, as I foretold, go on with
Three Guineas.
Why I even sat back just now and thought with pleasure of people reading that review. And when I think of the agony I went through in this room, just over a year ago ... when it dawned on me that the whole of three years' work was a complete failure: and then when I think of the mornings here when I used to stumble out and cut up those proofs and write three lines and then go back and lie on my bed—the worst summer in my life, but at the same time the most illuminating—it's no wonder my hand trembles. What most pleases me though is the obvious chance now since de Selincourt sees it, that my intention in
The Years
may be not so entirely muted and obscured as I feared. The
T.L.S.
spoke as if it were merely the death song of the middle classes: a series of exquisite impressions: but he sees that it is a creative, a constructive book. Not that I've yet altogether read him: but he has pounced on some of the key sentences. And this means that it will be debated; and this means that
Three Guineas
will strike very sharp and clear on a hot iron: so that my immensely careful planning won't be baulked by time of life etc. as I had made certain. Making certain however was an enormous discovery for me, though.

Friday, March 19th

Now this is one of the strangest of my experiences—"they" say almost universally that
The Years
is a masterpiece.
The
Times
says so. Bunny etc.: Howard Spring. If somebody had told me I should write this, even a week ago, let alone six months ago, I should have given a jump like a shot hare. How entirely and absolutely incredible it would have been! The praise chorus began yesterday: by the way I was walking in Covent Garden and found St. Pauls, C.G., for the first time, heard the old char singing as she cleaned the chairs in the ante hall; then went to Burnets; chose stuff; bought the
Evening Standard
and found myself glorified as I read it in the Tube. A calm quiet feeling, glory: and I'm so steeled now I don't think the flutter will much worry me. Now I must begin again on
Three Guineas.

Something about a masterpiece and how Mrs. W. has more to give us than any living novelist ... astonishing fertility.

Saturday, March 27th