Broken till i mend

The Stroller by Claude Monet, 1887,

dearest,

I often am lost in the paintings of past memories, lost years et fervent thinkings. I sit up late listening to hours of cello et bathing my head in things that quite still remain the same. Of course, I am a writer, we dwell on things that most humans don’t look at.

I struggle to finding my path back to romance novels.

I am not Shakespeare I shan’t allow myself to think that love can ever so last.
I mean, look around.

la romance est impossible!

But what I know of as a person, a woman, a lady In training is that no woman should be so doltish to think that a prince, a man, another being could fulfill another.
oui, I said it.
It’s why I cannot, I cannot, like ever so finish

my 3rd novel. I have strayed away from thinking that I could make a woman out of pain. 

I know, it’s seems quite A complicated, but being a woman is most ever so terribly honestly complicated.
I hope you are simple.
être bien,

ps. Novel 3 in the completion, impossible it is.

Yours
RS