There are two kinds of work to be done in the world, which may be called routine work and creative work.

 

By routine work we mean the tending of machines, the discharge of office duties, and the maintenance of the ordinary; which includes care of engines, ploughing, housework, answering letters and keeping accounts, 72 tending the sick, digging mines, building bridges, and the like. All these—and the lives of all of us comprise such functions—are to be done whether we feel like it or not. The trombone-player in the band must go on, though his heart is lead. The servant must sweep the floors, no matter how the listless Spring has got into her blood. And the doctor must make his calls, the policeman walk his beat, and the elevator-boy run his car, for they are cogs in the social wheel.

 

By creative work we mean the writing of stories, the composition of music, the painting of pictures, the modelling of statues, the singing of songs, and doings of such quality.

 

These acts should await the supreme¹ moment. Leonardo used to rush clear across Milan, when he was engaged in painting “The Last Supper” in the little out-of-the-way 73 church of S. M. delle Grazie, just to make three or four strokes with his brush, to add a touch that had occurred to him. That is one reason why the picture, now faded, is yet epochal in art.

 

One trouble with story magazines is that they are issued regularly. The ideal publication would appear “every little while.” One does claim to, but it is a fraud, for it is a regular monthly.

 

What a blessing² if nobody wrote a story unless he had a story to write; if no parson preached unless the fire burned within him; if nobody made a political speech unless he were as white-hot as Patrick Henry when he gave his “Liberty or death” oration³; if nobody played the piano or gave forth⁴ a song unless the compelling inspiration were there; if nobody built a house except to realize a beautiful dream, nor painted a picture 74 except to grasp and fix an entrancing vision.

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