“In the early stages of learning, our subjects were all very much interested in the work.  Their whole mind seemed to be spontaneously held by the writing.  They were always anxious to take up the work anew each day.  Their general attitude and the resultant sensations constituted a pleasant feeling tone, which had a helpful reactionary effect upon the work.  Continued practice, however, brought a change.  In place of the spontaneous, rapt attention of the beginning stages, attention tended, at certain definite stages of advancement, to wander away from the work.  A general feeling of monotony, which at times assumed the form of utter disgust, took the place of the former pleasant sensations and feelings.  The writing became a disagreeable task.  The unpleasant feelings now present in consciousness exerted an ever-restraining effect on the work.  As an expert skill was approached, however, the learners’ attitude and mood changed again.  They again took a keen interest in the work.  Their whole feeling tone once more became favorable, and the movements delightful and pleasant.  The expert typist ... so thoroughly enjoyed the writing that it was as pleasant as the spontaneous play activities of a child.  But in the course of developing this permanent interest in the work, there were many periods in nearly every test, many days, as well as stages in the practice as a whole, when the work was much disliked, periods when the learning assumed the role of a very monotonous task.  Our records showed that at such times as these no progress was made.  Rapid progress in learning typewriting was made only when the learners were feeling good and had an attitude of interest toward the work."[18]

Who has not experienced that feeling of hopelessness and despair that comes at these successive levels of the long process of acquiring skill in a complicated art?  How desperately we struggle on—­striving to put every item of energy that we can command into our work, and yet feeling how hopeless it all seems.  How tempting then is the hammock on the porch, the fascinating novel that we have placed on our bedside table, the happy company of friends that are talking and laughing in the next room; or how we long for the green fields and the open road; how seductive is that siren call of change and diversion,—­that evil spirit of procrastination!  How feeble, too, are the efforts that we make under these conditions!  We are not making progress in our art, we are only marking time.  And yet the psychologists tell us that this marking time is an essential in the mastery of any complicated art.  Somewhere, deep down in the nervous system, subtle processes are at work, and when finally interest dawns,—­when finally hope returns to us, and life again becomes worth while,—­these heartbreaking struggles reap their reward.  The psychologists call them “plateaus of growth,” but some one has said that “sloughs of despond” would be a far better designation.