Friday, December 11, 2009

winded.

More of my own, soon, I promise, but today, weeks after I've been back here, I can only muster up this.




Inertia oozed like molasses through Elaine's limbs. That's what it must feel like to have malaria, she thought.


At any rate, I'd be lucky if I wrote a page a day.

Then I knew what the trouble was.

I needed experience.

How could I write about life when I'd never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die? A girl I knew had just won a prize for a short story about her adventures amonth the pygmies in Africa. How could I compete with that sort of thing?


--from The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

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