![]() When she looked into the future, she saw herself at a beautiful desk next to a window, typing her next great book. All she had to do was become a writer, and her alienation would magically transform into evidence of brilliance rather than a source of shame. ![]() Admittedly, she spent more time scrolling through photos of Joan Didion in her sunglasses and Corvette Stingray than actually reading her, but the lesson stuck. But without a doubt, Florence’s Bible was Slouching Towards Bethlehem. She devoured the diaries of Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf, who were far more glamorous and doomed than any of their characters. Soon, however, her fascination shifted from the women in the stories to the women who wrote them. ![]() She had a penchant for stories about glamorous, doomed women like Anna Karenina and Isabel Archer. Florence had haunted the library, desperate for glimpses of lives unlike her own. ![]() “voracious reader, and it dawned on her that a corporate job in Tampa or Jacksonville was not, in fact, the be-all and end-all. ![]()
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