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hardly any time left for personal work
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unable to settle in; therefore I write diary [sic.]
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Yet I really must write a book about facts once in a way. And I cant keep grinding at fiction, which however goes easier this last lap than before.
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Nothing runs away with time like these house dreams … This is for the eternal book.
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I could write something much better, if I gave up a little more time to it.
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so never, never stop working with brains or fingers or toes till your limbs fly asunder & the heart sprays off into dust
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Evidently there is a taste in boots.
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Thus I can realize my boyhood dreams of writing a serial novel
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but any thought of going public, of coming out, and I’m looking for excuses, limits, obstacles
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but I’m all sandy with writing criticism, & must be off to my book again