London understood what separates dreamers from writers: inspiration isn't a muse that visits the worthy, but a creature you must hunt down and wrestle into submission. The real sting here lies in his rejection of the Romantic notion that genius arrives through passivity—he's saying the blank page won't fill itself, and waiting by the window accomplishes nothing. A musician who sets aside two hours daily to practice, even when uninspired, will stumble upon genuine ideas far more often than one who practices only when feeling moved. That "club" isn't violent; it's simply the unglamorous repetition and discipline that actually produces the work.