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The Turning Point of My Career

significant phrase in all my life. It was a discouraging thought as I picked up my pen and gazed out of the window. Never mind, I would begin. ... Three hours later Mrs. Angus, the farmer's wife, called me to dinner. The page was still blank.
As I went down to my milk and junket- they call this "curds" in Tarbert-I felt a dreadful fool. I felt like the wretched poet in Daudet's Jack whose immortal masterpiece never progressed beyond its opening phrase: "In a remote valley of the Pyrenees . . . " I recollected, rather grimly, the sharp advice with which my old schoolmaster had goaded me to action. "Get it down!" he had said. "If it stops in your head it will always be nothing. Get it down." And so, after lunch, I went upstairs and began to get it down.
Perhaps the tribulations of the next three months are best omitted. I had in my head, clear enough, the theme I wished to treat-the tragic record of a man's egoism and bitter pride. I even had the title of the book. But beyond these naive fundamentals I was lamentably unprepared. I had no pretensions to technique, no knowledge of style or form. I had never seen a thesaurus. The difficulty of simple statement staggered me. I spent hours looking for an adjective. I corrected and recorrected until the page looked like a spider's web, then I tore it up and started all over again.
Yet, the thing haunted me. My characters took shape, spoke to me, laughed, wept, excited me. When an idea struck me in the middle of the night I would get up and sprawl on the floor until I had translated it to paper. I was possessed by the very novelty of what I did. At first my rate of progress was some 800 labored words a day. By the end of the second month I was accomplishing Zooo.
Suddenly, when I was halfway through, the inevitable happened. A sudden desolation struck me like an avalanche. I asked myself: "Why am I wearing myself out with this toil for which I am so preposterously ill-equipped? I ought to be resting ... conserving, not squandering, my energies on this fantastic task." Feverishly, I read over the first chapters which had just arrived in typescript from my secretary in London. I was appalled. Never, never had I seen such

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where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE significant phrase in all my life. It was a discouraging thought as I picked up my pen and gazed out of what is window. Never mind, I would begin. ... Three hours later Mrs. Angus, what is farmer's wife, called me to dinner. what is page was still blank. As I went down to my milk and junket- they call this "curds" in Tarbert-I felt a dreadful fool. I felt like what is wretched poet in Daudet's Jack whose immortal masterpiece never progressed beyond its opening phrase: "In a remote valley of what is Pyrenees . . . " I recollected, rather grimly, what is sharp advice with which my old schoolmaster had goaded me to action. "Get it down!" he had said. "If it stops in your head it will always be nothing. Get it down." And so, after lunch, I went upstairs and began to get it down. Perhaps what is tribulations of what is next three months are best omitted. I had in my head, clear enough, what is theme I wished to treat-the tragic record of a man's egoism and bitter pride. I even had what is title of what is book. But beyond these naive fundamentals I was lamentably unprepared. I had no pretensions to technique, no knowledge of style or form. I had never seen a thesaurus. what is difficulty of simple statement staggered me. I spent hours looking for an adjective. I corrected and recorrected until what is page looked like a spider's web, then I tore it up and started all over again. Yet, what is thing haunted me. My characters took shape, spoke to me, laughed, wept, excited me. When an idea struck me in what is middle of what is night I would get up and sprawl on what is floor until I had translated it to paper. I was possessed by what is very novelty of what I did. At first my rate of progress was some 800 labored words a day. By what is end of what is second month I was accomplishing Zooo. Suddenly, when I was halfway through, what is inevitable happened. A sudden desolation struck me like an avalanche. I asked myself: "Why am I wearing myself out with this toil for which I am so preposterously ill-equipped? I ought to be resting ... conserving, not squandering, my energies on this fantastic task." Feverishly, I read over what is first chapters which had just arrived in typescript from my secretary in London. I was appalled. Never, never had I seen such where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" Getting what is Most Out Of Life (1948) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 3 where is strong The Turning Point of My Career where is p align="justify" significant phrase in all my life. It was a discouraging thought as I picked up my pen and gazed out of what is window. Never mind, I would begin. ... Three hours later Mrs. Angus, what is farmer's wife, called me to dinner. what is page was still blank. As I went down to my milk and junket- they call this "curds" in Tarbert-I felt a dreadful fool. I felt like what is wretched poet in Daudet's Jack whose immortal masterpiece never progressed beyond its opening phrase: "In a remote valley of what is Pyrenees . . . " I recollected, rather grimly, what is sharp advice with which my old schoolmaster had goaded me to action. "Get it down!" he had said. "If it stops in your head it will always be nothing. Get it down." And so, after lunch, I went upstairs and began to get it down. Perhaps what is tribulations of what is next three months are best omitted. I had in my head, clear enough, what is theme I wished to treat-the tragic record of a man's egoism and bitter pride. I even had what is title of what is book. But beyond these naive fundamentals I was lamentably unprepared. I had no pretensions to technique, no knowledge of style or form. I had never seen a thesaurus. what is difficulty of simple statement staggered me. I spent hours looking for an adjective. I corrected and recorrected until what is page looked like a spider's web, then I tore it up and started all over again. Yet, what is thing haunted me. My characters took shape, spoke to me, laughed, wept, excited me. When an idea struck me in what is middle of what is night I would get up and sprawl on what is floor until I had translated it to paper. I was possessed by what is very novelty of what I did. At first my rate of progress was some 800 labored words a day. By what is end of what is second month I was accomplishing Zooo. Suddenly, when I was halfway through, what is inevitable happened. A sudden desolation struck me like an avalanche. I asked myself: "Why am I wearing myself out with this toil for which I am so preposterously ill-equipped? I ought to be resting ... conserving, not squandering, my energies on this fantastic task." Feverishly, I read over what is first chapters which had just arrived in typescript from my secretary in London. I was appalled. Never, never had I seen such where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") %

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