dear daddy-long-legs,

such a blight has fallen over my literary career. i don't know

whether to tell you or not, but i would like some sympathy--

silent sympathy, please; don't re-open the wound by referring to it

in your next letter.

i've been writing a book, all last winter in the evenings, and all

the summer when i wasn't teaching latin to my two stupid children.

i just finished it before college opened and sent it to a publisher.

he kept it two months, and i was certain he was going to take it;

but yesterday morning an express parcel came (thirty cents due)

and there it was back again with a letter from the publisher, a very nice,

fatherly letter--but frank! he said he saw from the address that i

was still at college, and if i would accept some advice, he would

suggest that i put all of my energy into my lessons and wait until i

graduated before beginning to write. he enclosed his reader's opinion.

here it is:

`plot highly improbable. characterization exaggerated.

conversation unnatural. a good deal of humour but not always

in the best of taste. tell her to keep on trying, and in time

she may produce a real book.'

not on the whole flattering, is it, daddy? and i thought i was

making a notable addition to american literature. i did truly.

i was planning to surprise you by writing a great novel before

i graduated. i collected the material for it while i was at

julia's last christmas. but i dare say the editor is right.

probably two weeks was not enough in which to observe the manners

and customs of a great city.

i took it walking with me yesterday afternoon, and when i came

to the gas house, i went in and asked the engineer if i might borrow

his furnace. he politely opened the door, and with my own hands

i chucked it in. i felt as though i had cremated my only child!

i went to bed last night utterly dejected; i thought i was never

going to amount to anything, and that you had thrown away your

money for nothing. but what do you think? i woke up this morning

with a beautiful new plot in my head, and i've been going about

all day planning my characters, just as happy as i could be.

no one can ever accuse me of being a pessimist! if i had a husband

and twelve children swallowed by an earthquake one day, i'd bob

up smilingly the next morning and commence to look for another set.

affectionately,

judy