Regardless, I have a quote from Huxley's Crome Yellow that I would like to share with those of you who feel behind in your word count. (Crome Yellow is in the public domain, so if you wish to read the text in its entirety, it is available for free on Gutenberg).
Aldous Huxley
There was a silence. Mr. Barbecue-Smith stood with his back to the
hearth, warming himself at the memory of last winter's fires. He could
not control his interior satisfaction, but still went on smiling to
himself. At last he turned to Denis.
"You write," he asked, "don't you?"
"Well, yes--a little, you know."
"How many words do you find you can write in an hour?"
"I don't think I've ever counted."
"Oh, you ought to, you ought to. It's most important."
Denis exercised his memory. "When I'm in good form," he said, "I fancy
I do a twelve-hundred-word review in about four hours. But sometimes it
takes me much longer."
Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded. "Yes, three hundred words an hour at your
best." He walked out into the middle of the room, turned round on his
heels, and confronted Denis again. "Guess how many words I wrote this
evening between five and half-past seven."
"I can't imagine."
"No, but you must guess. Between five and half-past seven--that's two
and a half hours."
"Twelve hundred words," Denis hazarded.
"No, no, no." Mr. Barbecue-Smith's expanded face shone with gaiety. "Try
again."
"Fifteen hundred."
"No."
"I give it up," said Denis. He found he couldn't summon up much interest
in Mr. Barbecue-Smith's writing.
"Well, I'll tell you. Three thousand eight hundred."
Denis opened his eyes. "You must get a lot done in a day," he said.
Mr. Barbecue-Smith suddenly became extremely confidential. He pulled up
a stool to the side of Denis's arm-chair, sat down in it, and began to
talk softly and rapidly.
"Listen to me," he said, laying his hand on Denis's sleeve. "You want to
make your living by writing; you're young, you're inexperienced. Let me
give you a little sound advice."
What was the fellow going to do? Denis wondered: give him an
introduction to the editor of "John o' London's Weekly", or tell him
where he could sell a light middle for seven guineas? Mr. Barbecue-Smith
patted his arm several times and went on.
"The secret of writing," he said, breathing it into the young man's
ear--"the secret of writing is Inspiration."
Denis looked at him in astonishment.
"Inspiration..." Mr. Barbecue-Smith repeated.
"You mean the native wood-note business?"
Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded.
"Oh, then I entirely agree with you," said Denis. "But what if one
hasn't got Inspiration?"
"That was precisely the question I was waiting for," said Mr.
Barbecue-Smith. "You ask me what one should do if one hasn't got
Inspiration. I answer: you have Inspiration; everyone has Inspiration.
It's simply a question of getting it to function."
The clock struck eight. There was no sign of any of the other guests;
everybody was always late at Crome. Mr. Barbecue-Smith went on.
"That's my secret," he said. "I give it you freely."
hearth, warming himself at the memory of last winter's fires. He could
not control his interior satisfaction, but still went on smiling to
himself. At last he turned to Denis.
"You write," he asked, "don't you?"
"Well, yes--a little, you know."
"How many words do you find you can write in an hour?"
"I don't think I've ever counted."
"Oh, you ought to, you ought to. It's most important."
Denis exercised his memory. "When I'm in good form," he said, "I fancy
I do a twelve-hundred-word review in about four hours. But sometimes it
takes me much longer."
Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded. "Yes, three hundred words an hour at your
best." He walked out into the middle of the room, turned round on his
heels, and confronted Denis again. "Guess how many words I wrote this
evening between five and half-past seven."
"I can't imagine."
"No, but you must guess. Between five and half-past seven--that's two
and a half hours."
"Twelve hundred words," Denis hazarded.
"No, no, no." Mr. Barbecue-Smith's expanded face shone with gaiety. "Try
again."
"Fifteen hundred."
"No."
"I give it up," said Denis. He found he couldn't summon up much interest
in Mr. Barbecue-Smith's writing.
"Well, I'll tell you. Three thousand eight hundred."
Denis opened his eyes. "You must get a lot done in a day," he said.
Mr. Barbecue-Smith suddenly became extremely confidential. He pulled up
a stool to the side of Denis's arm-chair, sat down in it, and began to
talk softly and rapidly.
"Listen to me," he said, laying his hand on Denis's sleeve. "You want to
make your living by writing; you're young, you're inexperienced. Let me
give you a little sound advice."
What was the fellow going to do? Denis wondered: give him an
introduction to the editor of "John o' London's Weekly", or tell him
where he could sell a light middle for seven guineas? Mr. Barbecue-Smith
patted his arm several times and went on.
"The secret of writing," he said, breathing it into the young man's
ear--"the secret of writing is Inspiration."
Denis looked at him in astonishment.
"Inspiration..." Mr. Barbecue-Smith repeated.
"You mean the native wood-note business?"
Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded.
"Oh, then I entirely agree with you," said Denis. "But what if one
hasn't got Inspiration?"
"That was precisely the question I was waiting for," said Mr.
Barbecue-Smith. "You ask me what one should do if one hasn't got
Inspiration. I answer: you have Inspiration; everyone has Inspiration.
It's simply a question of getting it to function."
The clock struck eight. There was no sign of any of the other guests;
everybody was always late at Crome. Mr. Barbecue-Smith went on.
"That's my secret," he said. "I give it you freely."
The passage goes on, making a mockery of writers' methods of generating their material, with stabs at a particular genre or two amalgamated into the satire. I will leave that out, so as not to offend.
Find the full text here.
