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“The person who possesses the creative gift owns something of which she is not always master—something that at times strangely wills and works for itself.”
But this was supposed to be a NOVEL. There had to be more than just simple observation. There had to be a story. A plot. A level of intrigue.
Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts,
Writing could let out the pent-up emotions the way a doctor might bleed his patients.
“I would always rather be happy than dignified,”
Nevertheless, she persisted.
My gender has nothing to do with my helpfulness in this situation.”
He made me love him without even looking at me.”
(But she was a writer, so while she did get this moment of thinking herself somewhat brilliant, it would soon be offset by a crippling doubt that she had a gift of words at all. Such is the way with all writers. Trust us.)
Death could not stop true love, whether that love was paternal or platonic or romantic. Love extended across worlds.
