Then I tried to pull myself together, saying over and over, “I must, I must, I must...”
Stiff from sitting in such an unusual position, I fell back against the side of the bed
and kept up my struggle until just before ten-thirty, when I climbed back into bed.
It was over! And now it's really over. I finally realized that I must do my schoolwork
to keep from being ignorant, to get on in life, to become a journalist, because that's what I want!
I know I can write. A few of my stories are good, my descriptions of the Secret Annex are humorous,
much of my diary is vivid and alive, but it remains to be seen whether I really have talent.
“Eva's Dream” is my best fairy tale, and the odd thing is that I don't have the faintest idea where it came from.
Parts of “Cady's Life” are also good, but as a whole it's nothing special.
I'm my best and harshest critic. I know what's good and what isn't.
Unless you write yourself, you can't know how wonderful it is; I always used to bemoan the fact that I couldn't draw,
but now I'm overjoyed that at least I can write.
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