13 April 1925 – 19 April 1925

It is now after dinner, our first summertime night, and the mood for writing has left me, only just brushed me and left me. I have not achieved my sacred half hour yet. But think—in time to come I would rather read something here than reflect that I did polish off Mr. Ring Lardner successfully. I’m out to make £300 this summer by writing and build a bath and hot water range at Rodmell. But hush, hush—my books tremble on the verge of coming out and my future is uncertain. As for forecasts—it’s just on the cards Mrs. Dalloway is a success (Harcourt thinks it “wonderful”) and sells 2,000. I don’t expect it. I expect a slow silent increase of fame, such as has come about, rather miraculously, since J.’s R. was published. My value mounting steadily as a journalist, though scarcely a copy sold. And I am not very nervous—rather; and I want as usual to dig deep down into my new stories without having a looking glass flashed in my eyes—Todd, to wit; Colefax to wit et cetera.