Romance novelist Barbara Cartland was born on this day in 1901. She died in 2000.
If you want to get rich from writing, write the sort of thing that's read by persons who move their lips when they're reading to themselves." -- Don Marquis.
Holed up in his garret, he wrote and wrote. Short stories, poems, a novel, and then another. The memoirs of a rat, the one who’d started the Great Plague. Essays. Epistles, letters of defamation, of denunciation. Diatribes. He was angry. Athletic career over, Cutterback dead, Rae Ann done for. His marriage a smoldering ruin. Like Achilles’, his anger encompassed the cosmos, he imagined.
He sent his stuff out, some of it, and when it came back he put it away. He didn’t have time for it; he was too busy writing. -- Chapter 11, The Misforgotten.