This morning, during my routine morning write, I was reflecting, as I often am, on the sensation of being stuck with a certain essay or poem, or, on my bad days, with writing as a whole. I realized, as I wrote, that the voice in my head finding its way down my arm and out of my pen onto paper was in a crisp, clear English accent (more the sternness of Lady Mary than the kindness of Anna). The accented voice wrote:
One must not spend her days thinking more about her art than she does actually doing it–else she might as well discard of the idea altogether.
It may as well have been followed by, Isn’t that right, m’Lady?
Of course, one should refrain from stating the obvious (but one won’t):
A lady might solve her die-lemma by watching less television and, in its place, taking to the study to bury her nose in a book.
Alas, if one did that, she wouldn’t be thinking in an accent any more. Plus, one doesn’t have a study, one has a one-room studio apartment. It is, thank the heavens, in Great Barrington, which, after watching hours of D.A., has a very different ring to it.