Peter Crawley asks, “Does art have to be such hard work? A laborious investment of blood, sweat, tears and occasionally some writing?”

“While working for the post office,” he says, “Anthony Trollope would write before his shift began, from 5.30 to 8.30 each morning, requiring exactly 250 words every 15 minutes. If he finished one novel before 8.30 am, he immediately began another. ‘Let [the artists’] work be to them as is his common work to the common labourer,’ Trollope said. ‘No gigantic efforts will then be necessary.'”

His readers didn’t think so. They were outraged that Trollope may be closer to a hack than what they imagined him to be, a long-suffering saint of the arts.