Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.

Where I was raised a woman's word was law. I ain't quite outgrowed that yet.

I hope I have found myself, my work, my happiness - under the light of the western skies.

I love my work but do not know how I write it.

I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.

Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.

What makes life worth living? Better surely, to yield to the stain of suicide blood in me and seek forgetfulness in the embrace of cold dark death.