But I begin to be horribly afraid.
My will seems to be fatally weakened.

I can't see my way to the end of anything; if I get hold of an idea which seems good, all the sap has gone out of it before I have got it into working shape.

In these last few months, I must have begun a dozen different books; I have been ashamed to tell you of each new beginning.

I write twenty pages, perhaps, and then my courage fails.

I am disgusted with the thing, and can't go on with it--can't! My fingers refuse to hold the pen.