Gaudy Night (Lord Peter Wimsey, #12)

by Dorothy L. Sayers

But if I give Wilfrid all those violent and lifelike feelings, he’ll throw the whole book out of balance.” “You would have to abandon the jigsaw kind of story and write a book about human beings for a change.” “I’m afraid to try that, Peter. It might go too near the bone.” “It might be the wisest thing you could do.” “Write it out and get rid of it?” “Yes.” “I’ll think about that. It would hurt like hell.” “What would that matter, if it made a good book?” She was taken aback, not by what he said, but by his saying it. She had never imagined that he regarded her work very seriously, and she had certainly not expected him to take this ruthless attitude about it. The protective male? He was being about as protective as a can-opener. “You haven’t yet,” he went on, “written the book you could write if you tried. Probably you couldn’t write it when you were too close to things. But you could do it now, if you had the—the—” “The guts?” “Exactly.” “I don’t think I could face it.” “Yes, you could. And you’ll get no peace till you do. I’ve been running away from myself for twenty years, and it doesn’t work. What’s the good of making mistakes if you don’t use them? Have a shot. Start on Wilfrid.” “Damn Wilfrid! …All right. I’ll try. I’ll knock the sawdust out of Wilfrid, anyhow.” He took his right hand from the paddle and held it out to her, deprecatingly. “‘Always laying down the law with exquisite insolence to somebody.’ I’m sorry.”