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Reading the old Lovelace books, all ten tonight, I think. And in the intro it's Anna Quindlen who points out that Betsy Warrington Ray joins the ranks of literary heroines who aim to become writers, Anne of Green Gables, Jo March. And over here (ask me again when I was five, ask me when I used to read all ten books, five times a year, when I had a cigar box with stumpy pencils and a notebook inside, when I was young enough to climb a tree), there too, Betsy was the one who did it, not in spite of mores, or society, but in spite of perfectly coiffed hair and the prettiest hands and ankles besides, in spite of herself.
Joe Willard won the Essay Cup too many times, and it was parties that kept Betsy's essays sub-par.
So she gave up fudge for lent, becoming Episcopalian, but over here, this New Years' resolution is to write, an hour a day, no less, any day, all alone. More on days I have more time, but that hour's mine.
Says Betsy:
She looked back over the crowded winter. She did not regret it. But she should not have let its fun, its troubles, its excitements squeeze her writing out.
"If I treat my writing like that," she told herself, "it may go away entirely."
The thought appalled her. What would life be like without her writing? Writing filled her life with beauty and mystery, gave it purpose...and promise.
"Everyone has something, probably. With Julia, it's singing, with Anna, it's cooking, with Carney and Bonnie it's keeping house, having families...something that's most important of all because it's theirs to do."
Ambien. Sleep. The money will come. That's for later. They wrote without money in the old days, I can do it now. Something that's important because it's mine to do.
Joe Willard won the Essay Cup too many times, and it was parties that kept Betsy's essays sub-par.
So she gave up fudge for lent, becoming Episcopalian, but over here, this New Years' resolution is to write, an hour a day, no less, any day, all alone. More on days I have more time, but that hour's mine.
Says Betsy:
She looked back over the crowded winter. She did not regret it. But she should not have let its fun, its troubles, its excitements squeeze her writing out.
"If I treat my writing like that," she told herself, "it may go away entirely."
The thought appalled her. What would life be like without her writing? Writing filled her life with beauty and mystery, gave it purpose...and promise.
"Everyone has something, probably. With Julia, it's singing, with Anna, it's cooking, with Carney and Bonnie it's keeping house, having families...something that's most important of all because it's theirs to do."
Ambien. Sleep. The money will come. That's for later. They wrote without money in the old days, I can do it now. Something that's important because it's mine to do.
