I resolutely cut out music as impossible, settled down in my bedroom, and tackled my second, third, and fourth choices simultaneously.
Heavens, how I wrote! Never was there a creative fever such as mine from which the patient escaped fatal results.

The way I worked was enough to soften my brain and send me to a mad-house.

I wrote, I wrote everything--ponderous essays, scientific and sociological short stories, humorous verse, verse of all sorts from triolets and sonnets to blank verse tragedy and elephantine epics in Spenserian stanzas.

On occasion I composed steadily, day after day, for fifteen hours a day.

At times I forgot to eat, or refused to tear myself away from my passionate outpouring in order to eat.
And then there was the matter of typewriting.