“Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:"Fool!" said my muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write.”

“Fool," said my muse to me. "Look in thy heart and write.”

“Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,That she (dear she) might take some pleasure of my pain;Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know;Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain;I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain;Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flowSome fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburnt brain.But words came halting forth, wanting invention's stay;Invention, nature's child, fled step-dame study's blows;And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,'Fool,' said my muse to me; 'look in thy heart, and write.”

“Muses are fickle, and many a writer, peering into the voice, has escaped paralysis by ascribing the creative responsibility to a talisman: a lucky charm, a brand of paper, but most often a writing instrument. Am I writing well? Thank my pen. Am I writing badly? Don't blame me blame my pen. By such displacements does the fearful imagination defend itself.”

“My pen.’ Funny, I wrote that without noticing. ‘The torch’, ‘the paper’, but ‘my pen’. That shows what writing means to me, I guess. My pen is a pipe from my heart to the paper. It’s about the most important thing I own.”

“My wicked heart will ramble on in spite of myself. (Arabella)”