Although her father observed her intently, he could not fathom the meaning of her words. Her ramblings had always been a mystery to him.
“Is it the predestination of a female writer to be without love? I do not understand how men do it.”
“Do what, darling?” He had neglected speech throughout her twenty-minute long speech, and counting.
“Write and live and love, all at the same time. I could never write through my happiness. I would be too…happy. Too hungry for more.”
He readjusted his glasses. “More?”
“More happiness, more love. How could I sit and write about life and love, with them both within my grasp. That is why Austen’s novels are still considered literature. If she had been in love, married, happy, she would likely have been much less talented. Rather the talent would be there, but her bliss would have gotten in the way.
“Whenever I am content I cannot write, and yet as soon as the reason for my happiness deserts me, be it love or money, suddenly my pen is unstoppable. Why must the life of a female writer be such a lonesome one? And how can men write whilst joyful?”
He removed his glasses, as he always did when preparing for one of his finest speeches. “They don’t, my dear. Show me the man who his entirely content with his situation in life. He does not exist. In every marriage there is a crisis, in every job a dilemma-”
“Which more often than not he has created himself.” She ventured.
He glared at her and continued: “So you see, the need for unhappiness in the creation of a novel is far from being a mere woman’s problem.”