And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die.

I want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love.

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.

Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.

I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.

A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.

I do not fear it: I have been there.