When at length it was finished he began to have more doubts about it than he had felt while he was actually at work. Somehow the bright points that he had had in mind did not appear so bright when he saw them on paper. Some of the best of them he had omitted entirely; they were clear enough in his mind, but they did not get into the manuscript. “I don’t quite know what to make of it, Darling, now it’s done,” he said; and Darling noticed a shade of worry in his face. “I can’t tell for the life of me whether it is good for anything or not.” “Of course you can’t,” Darling answered. “No writer can form a just opinion of his own work while it is fresh in his mind. He knows what he intended to do and say, but whether he really has said and done those things on paper is beyond his comprehension till the thing cools off. I don’t pretend to be much of a writer myself, but I am acquainted with some famous authors and that is what they tell me. The only way to judge fairly of your own manuscript is to bury it in the bottom of a deep trunk for a year or two, till you have forgotten all about it. By that time the characters and the incidents are all new to you, and you can see the weak points and strengthen them.” “Ah, if I only could do that!” Dick exclaimed. “But that is possible only for the millionaires who write for fun or fame. A man who writes for money cannot afford to do it--at least, not at the start. You see I have no hesitation in saying that I write for money. Other men use their brains in great commercial enterprises for money; you use yours in the service of the Transport for money; Mr. Harding uses his in editing the paper for money; why should not I use mine in writing novels for money? I think it is perfectly legitimate.” “I agree with you,” Darling laughed. “It is perfectly legitimate to write novels for money; the thing is to get the money. You must give the public something they want before you can get their money. But I think it is just as well for you that you can’t afford to let your manuscript lie for a year before you try to sell it. My honest opinion is, Dick, that if you were to let that book lie by for a year and then read it, you would wonder how you could possibly have written anything quite so bad. Mind you, I say this without knowing anything about your novel. I say it on general principles. That is the experience of most writers.” “It is a very discouraging outlook!” Dick exclaimed. “Not at all!” Darling asserted. “On the contrary, it is a sure sign of progress. If you keep on writing for a year, you will know much more about novels and about literature in general than you know now. You will judge your early work by higher standards. When a writer looks at his last year’s work and sees how bad it was, it is a strong indication that he is doing better work this year, and that he will do still better next year.”