Journal of a Novel

by John Steinbeck

  I don’t expect you to like the part I am on now as much as some people will. But to many men, it will strike a long burning bill of memory. You didn’t grow up with the model-T Ford just a little higher than the end man of the trinity but many millions did.

  July 30, Monday

  The working notes are bound to suffer during the time you are here because I talk them out instead of writing them out. Today I am going to have trouble getting started. I think maybe I talked too much over the week end. I should never tell what is going to happen. It really hurts the writing. And I hope you will never ask any more. It’s as though I let the story down to tell before I write it, at least in these notes.

  I ate too much over the week end. Must go on starvation to get my hunger back. I just can’t eat like that and keep any awareness. Food, too much of it, has a much worse effect on me than too much alcohol. I guess different bodies react differently. Overeating poisons not only my body but slugs my mind into insensibility. And I ate more in the last three days than is ordinary in a week for me. I’ll gradually work it off and out, I guess. I’m having a hard time going to work because of it. My brain feels fat.

  I’ve started the boys walking to town today. Gave them money for cones. I think it will be good for them to explore. City kids are so timid about getting lost. I want ours to learn to set out on their own.

  I hope you are getting a good rest. You really need it. But you do have remarkable recuperative powers. I can almost see you snap back by the minute. And I’m glad for you to see the carving of the box to hold this manuscript. Now you will know how much goes into it. If I had finished it alone you would not have known the hours and hours that went into it. It’s a good thing to see. And maybe you will get some small tools to work with. I think it is good for both hands and brain, and when you finish, you have made something and even if it isn’t very good it is yours.

  And now to work or to try to.

  August 1, Wednesday

  I didn’t see you yesterday. Got into story trouble and when that happens, there’s nothing to do but be alone and think. I didn’t sleep at all last night but I think I got it ironed out and I am ready to go to work on it. Called you at the hotel but they said you were not down yet. It is a grey and rainy day. It matches my spirits which are wearied with thinking. And it is such a small matter which puzzled me. But to me it was insuperable. In today’s work you will see how it is worked out and you probably won’t be aware of my problem. It was subject and presentation of a curious moral thing. And it’s a thing which is so delicate that probably a great many people would not know of its existence in the book. Anyway, thinking it out I did a hell of a lot of sand-papering. And now I am going to get to work. See how the notes diminish when you are here.

  My sweet Elaine sat many hours with me last night while I put out a thundering silence. I can’t bear anyone else around at such a time.

  Later. And there you have it. And maybe you can see the complication and the reason I couldn’t sleep last night.

  August 2, [THURSDAY], Tom’s Birthday

  A beautiful crisp day with a suggestion of fall in the air. It’s just a promise of frost and will not last long. But I love the little sharpness of it. So tired last night that I was nearly crazy. I toppled over into unconsciousness and this morning was all recovered. And to wake up to this really lovely day. Tom got his presents, a boat and a watch and a knife, and he is very pleased. They are going to the pond to swim, if they make it.

  I feel a little mixed up. Too many things happening I guess. I get confused. The single-track mind is overloaded. And the only danger is that I might turn mean. I almost always do when my pups of thought are endangered. You will probably regret that you came to the island because I am not very pleasant when I am working and sometimes I am downright nasty. I am not very large in that but I try.

  A cousin of mine—Pat Hamilton, son of George, grandson of Samuel and the only bearer of the name, the only one (isn’t that odd)—died two days ago. He was an incurable alcoholic and died of a heart attack after a two-weeks’ drunk. And there lies that family name. I have the blood and my sons but he had the name. I feel badly that he did not wear it well. He left it no pride and surely no shine. In fact he dirtied it. The others though some of them were violent, at least were not sordid. This is the tragedy of a name. Well hic jacet.

  Now because it is my son’s birthday, I should get to work and have it done so I can play with him and do all the things that will make the day important. This is his most important day so far because with today he is a boy and he must renounce his babyhood. It is one of the hardest changes we make. And some never make it. But he will have to try, poor kid. We will help him and also we will insist on it. Tom has made great strides this year, particularly this summer. Now to work.

  August 3, Friday

  The birthday is over and I am nearly over. I have a very great weariness today. The weight of thinking seems too heavy to me. I guess I need a rest and I’m not going to get it. Complication and confusion—trying to do several things at once and they all fail. I find I am hurrying to get through my day’s work. And that is going to stop. I’ll lose any relaxed quality if it does. The other day you made a joke—I hope it was a joke—about increasing my word rate. That isn’t even a joke. It is a destructive suggestion and not even to be joked about. A book, as you know, is a very delicate thing. If it is pressured, it will show that pressure. So—no more increases. My first impulse on such a suggestion is to stop entirely for a while and get my breath back. This is a really bad time in the book. I need time and lots of it. And I am going to get it too if people get hurt. It seems to require a certain meanness. And I have it. I’m really mixed up today. A book takes so long that people get tired waiting. I know that. But I said at the beginning that this had to be written as though it would never be done. And if I lose that feeling for any reason, the book will go to hell. So please let’s remember that. After all this work I would rather put it away for a year than to spoil it now. This is all the result of weariness. I know that. But I can’t help my weariness.

  Now today I have a little interim thing that should be well done. And I don’t know whether or not I can do it. In other words, it’s a very hard day. Very hard. I don’t know how to go about it. But it is time. And I’ll have to do it.

  August 6, Monday

  Now you go on back to New York and I go back to my book. A real bad crise de nerfs last night caused by some kind of exhaustion or confusion or something, but a mad one of really ragged nerves. The long sleeps have been so full of dreams that they have little rest. Maybe like the Hamiltons I am over-engined for my chassis. I hope not. I want to finish this book. Beyond that I have not really thought much. But there is always the worry that I will not be able to finish it. And I don’t know why such a thing occurs to me. Guess my resistance is low. That’s all I can think of. And the threshold is low to irritations. This I am going to control. In fact the controls are going back on right now. The rawness doesn’t very often show through, I hope.

  Now I will go to my story and maybe get the pain out of my guts for a while in that. The episode is that of Dessie and Tom. And in effect it is a kind of a dreadful story. It is the end of the Hamiltons in one sense and in one direction. In all of it you will find a kind of play-acting, like children being kings and queens. That has always seemed very sad to me and how much sadder if it is grown-up people playing at kings and queens. That’s what this is—a travesty. And I have to put it in. For a while I thought I could leave it out, but I guess I can’t. From the first it has been integrated in my mind with the story, the whole story. I wonder whether it is going as I had intended. We find these crises very often. And there is one other thing. Our family always thought that Dessie went back to the ranch to take care of Tom. But her love was gone and no one ever thought that she might have gone back in search of her father, or the safety, or the warmth she needed. Of all her family Tom was most like her father and it was the seat she ran t
o. Maybe she was only running back to her childhood. I don’t know but it seems reasonable. And I think that’s the way I will have to see it.

  Now there’s the opening of the scene for this week. And I seem to be over my little tempest. I ought to apologize to you and to Dorothy for letting my inner woes get out like poison. I think I ruined your dinner last night. I didn’t want to. And apology is no good. I didn’t intend to. I don’t know what causes it but every nerve end was on fire and little noises crashed on me like waves. I have not Elaine’s gallantry. I should have been able to cover it up but I’m not that good. I wish I could reform but I know when this real nervous horror is on me I am helpless against it. So please believe that I am sorry. I think it is all over today. I hope it is. It is no new thing to me—a depression that destroys all the world. Women get it and since they have physical symptoms, it is an excuse. When a man gets it, he has no defense. And so I will only say, I was nervously sick all over. And I am sorry I could not control nor dissemble it. I hope it did not spoil the end of your vacation. It was not aimed at you. It came entirely out of me.

  August 7, Tuesday

  I felt very sad when your plane took off yesterday—felt a great sense of my own inadequacy. One of the troubles with being a specialized animal is that a normal life is abnormal and I am not very good at it. And I don’t want to be protected in my shortcomings. Often then the shortcoming becomes a thing in itself. I’m glad we had the last talk though. I think it clarified some of the book things for you. And your worry about the Kate scene strikes a chord because it sounds false in my ears also.

  Well, next week the birthday. 56 And I am going to miss a couple of days of work and the very sense of sin will be good for me. There’s nothing like sin for the removal of complacency. But, I can’t feel any complacency. There must be some though. There has to be. Anyway, the Japanese lanterns came and the boys and I will decorate the house early in the morning. And we will set up the presents and at 12 noon the salute. And at night a big beach picnic. That should be a birthday. And I do hope Elaine will like her presents. I just thought of another woman who could have had such a thing. The old dowager of China. But dowager means the country was ruled by council so she is out. No—there have been very few. Marie of Roumania was only regent. It’s Victoria, Anne, Elizabeth, Mary, Mary of Scots (there’s a new one but she didn’t really rule either), Catherine of Russia and perhaps Isabella of Spain and that’s the works since gunpowder. There were no queens of France or Germany or Italy or Spain except Isabella. Odd, isn’t it. You think there are but there aren’t.William and Mary—but he was the boss.

  Well, I started the Dessie scene yesterday. Read it to Elaine last night and she likes it. In it there will be a rather terrible attempt to recreate the past. Nearly everyone tries it at one time or another and it always fails. The most terrible wrenching scene I can remember in my life was the Christmas after my mother was paralyzed. My father tried to make an old Christmas. We decorated a tree in her room and had presents and tried to make the Christmas jokes. And I remember her eyes—cold as marbles but alive. I don’t know how much she could see or understand. But it breaks me up every time I remember how hard my father tried. It’s little wonder he didn’t live long after she died. He had no heart for it. His spirit hung on him like the limp clothes on a scarecrow.

  I have the bottom of the box just about hollowed down to the level I want. Must straighten the edges and make the bottom level and then just polish and polish. And when I get it home I will put the lamb’s wool power buffer on it and it will glow. Elaine suggests making the jacket look like the box, like wood with the grain and the polish. I don’t think anyone buys my books because of the color of the jacket. And surely the carved wood might be an unusual and striking thing. And now to work.

  August 8, Tuesday

  Violent rain and wind. And it looks like a storm of several days. This will make it a touch difficult to concentrate because the boys have to play in the house. And it is impossible for them to be quiet. Elaine, however, suggested cotton in the ears and I have tried it and it works so well that I am going to buy some ear plugs. Might make a great difference.

  Went fishing yesterday afternoon and we caught 49 scups and had a lot of them for dinner last night. That’s the kind of fishing I like. What a grey day, and really violent.

  Now to book. I’m going to try to create a curious mood today. I won’t tell you what it is. But I want to see if you can feel it. And the method will be one I developed long ago. Now I will see whether I will be able to use it. It’s the roundabout method that seems so simple and is actually a choice of symbol blended with word sound. The intent is to soften resistance to the mood by the continuation of sounds and small pictures—miniscule things, about imperceptible. I don’t know whether I can do it or not. It’s a thing to try. And I am pretty sure I can do it. We will see.

  Last night, after being on the water, we were so sleepy that we went to bed at 8:30 and slept before nine. The great wind and rain storm came up in the night. And I didn’t even hear it until it was well along. My desk was flooded and my chair soaked. Fortunately there was no manuscript on my desk.

  Tonight the masquerade for the kids, and ours are going as Three Blind Mice with bandaged tails and tin cups. They should be cute. We made the ears and tails the night before last. I hope it isn’t as stormy as it is now. The rain is pouring down.

  And I must go to work. I really must. And right at that moment I had an invention. And I haven’t time to think of it. Now I must really go to work.

  August 9, Thursday

  Your letter about the salutes came yesterday. It will be 41 guns. That is accurate and sixty-two are too many. It will be just fine. But I’ll give you a report on it. It will happen at high noon. Only one thing remains to come and it will probably be along. The boys and the boy next door went to the children’s masquerade and won first prize as the funniest. They went as Three Blind Mice. They were very funny. Tamara Geva57 comes today. She will not bother me. In fact she helps a lot with the kids. And my work will go right on. I am going to take two days off next week, however. Need it I think.

  I hope you liked the scenes with Tom and Dessie. They are so very carefully done and I hope they are successful. It is the last of the Hamilton sequences. Only Will can come back. What really happened to Will is so silly that I cannot use it. His wife died. He married his stenographer. She got him to retire to golf and travel and he died of boredom in six months. It’s too pat. I couldn’t think of using it.

  The rain yesterday was tremendous and today it is overcast but it will clear about noon I think. No, it is clearing now. And I must not forget to send you a check when I send mss. on Saturday. I will pin it to the script. I got the box hollowed but not polished. Probably finish all the rough work tonight. I’ve lost more weight around the middle. My pants fall off. And that’s not a bad idea. I want to lose 10 more pounds and then I will be about right and try to stay there.

  I feel funny today. Kind of excited and restless and good in a shivery way. This means nothing except that I have had enough rest. I guess that’s it but it makes me feel prophetic of very fine things to come. I should be writing now. But for some reason I put it off for a while until my handwriting clears. I guess I am not ready yet.

  Everyone who sees it falls in love with your box. And there is still lots of work to do on it. Lots. But if I get it done when the mss. is done, that will be time enough. It gives me lots of time. And I need lots of time.

  Now the sun comes out. It is going to be a warm and lovely day. But I’ll have to stay in and work. I can see it is going to be slow today—very slow. And I don’t much care. It’s funny—I am reluctant to start on the last book because it will mean I must go through to the end and I guess I don’t want to finish this book. I don’t want it finished. It will be a sad day for me when it is done. I have never loved my work more, in fact never as much. And I don’t mean the finished work but the working. But now I guess I really must get
to it.

  August 10, Friday

  Another week. I will not be able to finish the Tom and Dessie sequence and I wish I could, so that when I take the two days off I can start with something fresh. Maybe I’ll work tomorrow. Surely I will work on Monday. That’s it. That will be the finish of Tom.

  Geva and Kent Smith58 came last night. She will stay a few days but he goes tomorrow. Being thoughtful professional people, they are out for a long walk until I can get my work done. The fog is hanging very heavily this morning and the island is damp. The paper is a little clammy.

  Now I will cut out the external things.

  Today I have to do something I haven’t done in this whole book. I have to eliminate some of yesterday’s work and change the pace I had set for it. It has not been often. It was just wrong. But I don’t mind. And surely that is a minimum.

  I won’t get it off to you until tomorrow because Elaine wants to read it tonight, but you will still get it Monday so that’s all right too.

  I guess I should go to it now.

  August 12 [SUNDAY]

  If I am late with the mss. this week, it is because I wanted to finish the section before Elaine’s birthday. So I have worked into the week end and then I shall take three days off and I think I need it. The last part of the book is coming up. I want to be fresh for it. And I have been getting too tired toward the end of the week lately. Also the story of Tom and Dessie has taken toll of me. I don’t know whether I have managed to project my feeling about it. It is so personal. Maybe no one else can feel it. I don’t know. But here it is anyway. Let me know whether it is effective. At the very end I will leave the realistic and try to go into music again as I did with Samuel. But it will be a kind of counterpoint to his music and—well, we will see. Maybe good, maybe bad. But I shall want to draw the reader into the personal so that he is reading about himself.