But I think there is a demon who seats himself
on the feather of my pen when I begin to write, and leads it astray
from the purpose. Characters expand under my hand; incidents are
multiplied; the story lingers, while the materials increase; my
regular mansion turns out a Gothic anomaly, and the work is closed
long before I have attained the point I proposed.
_Captain_. Resolution and determined forbearance might remedy that
evil.
_Author_. Alas! my dear sir, you do not know the force of paternal
affection. When I light on such a character as Bailie Jarvie, or
Dalgetty, my imagination brightens, and my conception becomes clearer
at every step which I take in his company, although it leads me many a
weary mile away from the regular road, and forces me leap hedge and
ditch to get back into the route again. If I resist the temptation, as
you advise me, my thoughts become prosy, flat, and dull; I write
painfully to myself, and under a consciousness of flagging which makes
me flag still more; the sunshine with which fancy had invested the
incidents, departs from them, and leaves every thing dull and gloomy.
I am no more the same author I was in my better mood, than the dog in
a wheel, condemned to go round and round for hours, is like the same
dog merrily chasing his own tail, and gambolling in all the frolic of
unrestrained freedom. In short, sir, on such occasions, I think I am
bewitched.
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