How Can There Be So

As Writers Go, I Have A Skin Of Average Thickness. I Am Pleased By A Good Review, Disappointed By A Bad. None Of It Penetrates Far Enough To Influence The Thing I Write Next.

My Children Are Living, Thinking Human Beings. It Isn't In My Power To Regret Them, For They Belong To Themselves.

The Reaction To 'aftermath' Has Been Far Worse Than To 'a Life's Work,' Yet I Find I'm Perhaps A Little Less Touched By It. In Both Cases, I've Coped Artistically By Believing The Criticisms Weren't Right. They Upset Me, But They Didn't Challenge My Understanding Of How To Write, Nor Of How Morality Functions In Literature.

In Domestic Life The Woman's Value Is Inherent, Unquantifiable; At Home She Exchanges Proven Values For Mythological Ones. She "wants" To Be At Home, And Because She Is A Woman She's Allowed To Want It. This Desire Is Her Mystique, It Is Both What Enables Her To Domesticate Herself And What Disempowers Her.

What Other Grown-up Gets Told How To Do Their Job So Often As A Writer?