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I have never liked to suggest that writing is grinding, let alone brave work. H. L. Mencken used to say that any scribbler who found writing too arduous ought to take a week off to work on an assembly line, where he will discover what work is really like. The old boy, as they say, got that right. To be able to sit home and put words together in what one hopes are charming or otherwise striking sentences is, no matter how much tussle may be involved, lucky work, a privileged job. The only true grit connected with it ought to arrive when, thinking to complain about how hard it is to write, one is smart enough to shut up and silently grit one’s teeth.
That rather sums up the job I do now. I've looked at labourers working in the street sometimes, and thought: how do they do such a strenuous job each day? Well, I guess, we're each built for a different part of the global task....
Had a practice tonight with three of the singers who'll be in the concert that's being presented on the 12th of this month. One has had a similar sort of stinking cold to the one I've just got over; another had no voice at all last time we practiced, and is only just getting it back now; and the third was in fine fettle. But another singer, who was supposed to have been there, has a cold. Let's hope and pray the cold doesn't go the way mine did, otherwise she'll be struggling to sing next week.
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