At one time I had three secretaries, one Spanish and two English, and kept them all busy. On other occasions, I perforce worked ten hours a day. But as a rule four to five hours’ steady grind accomplished all that was necessary. One can do an immense amount in that time if one sticks to it. It is fairly easy to give advice on how to write for the papers: journalism can be taught as a school task to a great extent, but with books it is different. We all have to serve our apprenticeship for ourselves, to learn how to balance our subject, to work out our theme, and finally to make a readable volume. It seems to me book-making is more a gift than anything else. Artists learn to draw, but they never learn to paint. Colour is an inspiration. Drawing requires work. The same applies to a book. We can all learn the mechanical part; but I don’t honestly think that anyone can write a book that people will read, unless they have some special gift that way. Books must be individual. All this perhaps sounds pedantic, but the dozens and dozens of young men and women, who have written to me asking for advice, show how many, from milk-maids to hotel-lift boys, are interested in the subject. People, who can neither write nor spell, have strange ideas that God has sent them special literary powers, and hope to sit on the top of the ladder of fame without putting a foot on the bottom rung. ’Tis a laborious ladder to climb in all the arts; but it has its rewards. Public praise counts for little, the real pleasure is the knowledge within ourselves that we have given of our best. It does not satisfy; but it pleases. To produce a book or a picture is a stupendous effort. It claims all the power of thought and of concentration that is in us. It demands enthusiasm, determination, the conquest of idleness and self. We may not produce a great book or a great picture, but it is our supremest effort at that time, and when done, we feel like a squeezed lemon. “Writers are so dull,” is a frequent remark. So they may well be—at times. So are artists, or musicians, or any creative workers. Their life’s blood is given to their work. Another saddening result of giving one’s self wholly (as a worker should) to a task until success crowns one’s efforts is that it often arouses the envy of onlookers, and mostly of those who would not take the least trouble to compete. Yes: it is fairly certain that the more one achieves in any walk of life, the more jealousy one encounters. A pretty woman is called hideous by some; a woman with charm—that indefinable attraction we all love—is dubbed a minx. Brilliant wit calls forth much condemnation. Success of work and brain is belittled by the envious. So while nothing succeeds like success, no one makes more enemies than the one who wins.