I am reading a book called Between the Sheets: The Literary Liaisons of Nine 20th Century Women Writers by Lesley McDowell. It delves into the reason behind famous female authors’ dysfunctional relationships with their male literary partners. The reason, McDowell asserts, is that these men encouraged them to write, could have long conversations about writing, understood them.
As much as I like to believe that I would do it differently and put my emotional and mental health ahead of any writerly pride or desire, past and present circumstances indicate otherwise. I know that I would offer up my soul in exchange for a passionate conversation about my craft.