Shirts and jeans litter the asphalt, the empty fabric limbs askew as if they're attempting to escape. Blood smears Sarah's lips as she struggles against the chest of a dirty looking man with a beard. Terror. Terror is the only word my mind can seize on and it forgets what it means. I forget how to think - to move.
For that is what you are, that is who you are _ you are an author. You cannot cease to write any more than you can cease to breathe...This difficult season will pass _ your eyes and mind will inevitably be opened once more to the wealth of ideas all around you...And even if the ideas around you fall short of what you seek _ even if, as you say, you have not the heart to write_ perhaps it is your heart you ought to write of. - Laurie to Jo, on writing
The Courtship of Jo March: a variation of Louisa May Alcott's Little Women
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For that is what you are, that is who you are _ you are an author. You cannot cease to write any more than you can cease to breathe...This difficult season will pass _ your eyes and mind will inevitably be opened once more to the wealth of ideas all around you...And even if the ideas around you fall short of what you seek _ even if, as you say, you have not the heart to write_ perhaps it is your heart you ought to write of. - Laurie to Jo, on writing
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