p r i v a t e · a r c h i v e

love · page four

She realised she had to get this thing under control or it would eat her up. She wasn't suited to writing fiction, she knew that. If she was she would have been a writer. She did want to be a writer as a teenager and had she carried on in that vein, no doubt that's what she would have become. Her art still gave her some leeway to write. She could write and publish an artist’s book. In fact that's what she's going to aim for after all but (not) with the goal of writing a novel. What is a novel is the same sort of question as what is an artist's book. A book written. A book made by an artist?

She's been given a gift of the theme of love - love - and without doubt that will lead back to Women in Love and a feminist reading of it which is the only way to read it. She could tell of how the book got her into such trouble around the issue of free love and love in general.

Punctuation in or out of speech marks? She was forgetful these days.

“People seem to like books I do based on personal experience,” she thought to herself. Perhaps that's because they were the ones that she put her heart and soul into. Heart and soul. Those are two of the things she wanted to stay away from when dealing with the subject. “Avoid like the plague,”she said to herself. “No hearts. No flowers. That's chocolate box love.”

What kind of love did she want to talk about then? Broken hearts? No. “No hearts allowed,” she said and sniffed[sniffed?]. “No fucking hearts!”

Hearts are not allowed.
So what is that?
Where should she start?