“I know you can and I know you're going to. There!” rising and laying a hand on my shoulder, “it is time for ME to be starting. Kent, old man, I want you to promise me that you will do as I tell you. Will you?”
“I can't, Jim. I would if I could, but—”
“Will you promise me to think the idea over? Think it over carefully; don't think of anything else for the rest of the week? Will you promise me to do that?”
I hesitated. I was perfectly sure that all my thinking would but strengthen my determination to remain at home, but I did not like to appear too stubborn.
“Why, yes, Jim,” I said, doubtfully, “I promise so much, if that is any satisfaction to you.”
“All right. I'll give you until Friday to make up your mind. If I don't hear from you by that time I shall take it for granted that you have made it up in the wrong way and I'll be here on Saturday. I'll keep the process up week in and week out until you give in. That's MY promise. Come on. We must be moving.”
He said good-by to Hephzy and we walked together to the station. His last words as we shook hands by the car steps were: “Remember—think. But don't you dare think of anything else.” My answer was a dubious shake of the head. Then the train pulled out.
I believe that afternoon and evening to have been the “bluest” of all my blue periods, and I had had some blue ones prior to Jim's visit. I was dreadfully disappointed. Of course I should have realized that no advice or “prescription” could help me. As Campbell had said, “It was up to me;” I must help myself; but I had been trying to help myself for months and I had not succeeded. I had—foolishly, I admit—relied upon him to give me a new idea, a fresh inspiration, and he had not done it. I was disappointed and more discouraged than ever.
My state of mind may seem ridiculous. Perhaps it was. I was in good health, not very old—except in my feelings—and my stories, even the “Black Brig,” had not been failures, by any means. But I am sure that every man or woman who writes, or paints, or does creative work of any kind, will understand and sympathize with me. I had “gone stale,” that is the technical name for my disease, and to “go stale” is no joke. If you doubt it ask the writer or painter of your acquaintance. Ask him if he ever has felt that he could write or paint no more, and then ask him how he liked the feeling. The fact that he has written or painted a great deal since has no bearing on the matter. “Staleness” is purely a mental ailment, and the confident assurance of would-be doctors that its attacks are seldom fatal doesn't help the sufferer at the time. He knows he is dead, and that is no better, then, than being dead in earnest.
I knew I was dead, so far as my writing was concerned, and the advice to go away and bury myself in a strange country did not appeal to me. It might be true that I was already buried in Bayport, but that was my home cemetery, at all events. The more I thought of Jim Campbell's prescription the less I felt like taking it.