Writing was like digging coal. I sweat blood. The spell is on me.
I see so much more than I used to see. The effect has been to depress and sadden and hurt me terribly.
No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.
Where I was raised a woman's word was law. I ain't quite outgrowed that yet.
Today I began the novel that I determined to be great.
These critics who crucify me do not guess the littlest part of my sincerity. They must be burned in a blaze. I cannot learn from them.
I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.
Adam Larey gazed with hard and wondering eyes down the silent current of the red river upon which he meant to drift away into the desert
Every once in a while I feel the tremendous force of the novel. But it does not stay with me.
I must go deeper and even stronger into my treasure mine and stint nothing of time, toil, or torture.
I love my work but do not know how I write it.
I did not have one bad spell during writing - an unprecedented record.
There are hours when I must force the novel out of my mind and be interested in the children.
I am full of fire and passion. I am not ready yet for great concentration and passion.
This motion-picture muddle had distracted me from my writing.
Jealously was an unjust and stifling thing.
I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.
The Indian story has never been written. Maybe I am the man to do it.
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