"And yet it seemed so
good when I was thinking about it.
good when I was thinking about it.
Kipling - Poems
" Maybe
I encouraged him too much, for, one night, he called on me, his eyes
flaming with excitement, and said breathlessly:
"Do you mind--can you let me stay here and write all this evening? I
won't interrupt you, I won't really. There's no place for me to write in
at my mother's. "
"What's the trouble? " I said, knowing well what that trouble was.
"I've a notion in my head that would make the most splendid story that
was ever written. Do let me write it out here. It's such a notion! "
There was no resisting the appeal. I set him a table; he hardly
thanked me, but plunged into the work at once. For half an hour the pen
scratched without stopping. Then Charlie sighed and tugged his hair. The
scratching grew slower, there were more erasures, and at last ceased.
The finest story in the world would not come forth.
"It looks such awful rot now" he said, mournfully.
"And yet it seemed so
good when I was thinking about it. What's wrong? "
I could not dishearten him by saying the truth. So I answered: "Perhaps
you don't feel in the mood for writing. "
"Yes I do--except when I look at this stuff. Ugh! "
"Read me what you've done," I said. He read, and it was wondrous bad
and he paused at all the specially turgid sentences, expecting a little
approval; for he was proud of those sentences, as I knew he would be.
"It needs compression," I suggested, cautiously.
"I hate cutting my things down. I don't think you could alter a word
here without spoiling the sense. It reads better aloud than when I was
writing it. "
"Charlie, you're suffering from an alarming disease afflicting a
numerous class. Put the thing by, and tackle it again in a week. "
"I want to do it at once. What do you think of it?
I encouraged him too much, for, one night, he called on me, his eyes
flaming with excitement, and said breathlessly:
"Do you mind--can you let me stay here and write all this evening? I
won't interrupt you, I won't really. There's no place for me to write in
at my mother's. "
"What's the trouble? " I said, knowing well what that trouble was.
"I've a notion in my head that would make the most splendid story that
was ever written. Do let me write it out here. It's such a notion! "
There was no resisting the appeal. I set him a table; he hardly
thanked me, but plunged into the work at once. For half an hour the pen
scratched without stopping. Then Charlie sighed and tugged his hair. The
scratching grew slower, there were more erasures, and at last ceased.
The finest story in the world would not come forth.
"It looks such awful rot now" he said, mournfully.
"And yet it seemed so
good when I was thinking about it. What's wrong? "
I could not dishearten him by saying the truth. So I answered: "Perhaps
you don't feel in the mood for writing. "
"Yes I do--except when I look at this stuff. Ugh! "
"Read me what you've done," I said. He read, and it was wondrous bad
and he paused at all the specially turgid sentences, expecting a little
approval; for he was proud of those sentences, as I knew he would be.
"It needs compression," I suggested, cautiously.
"I hate cutting my things down. I don't think you could alter a word
here without spoiling the sense. It reads better aloud than when I was
writing it. "
"Charlie, you're suffering from an alarming disease afflicting a
numerous class. Put the thing by, and tackle it again in a week. "
"I want to do it at once. What do you think of it?
