Her parents had paid for her to see a psychiatrist. Lots of sympathy (even if it’s not free, Sue thought). She read a lot, she went on long walks, but her days were becoming more and more unstructured and formless. What had Virginia Woolf written in her own diary?
A battle against depression, rejection (by Harpers of my story) routed today (I hope) by clearing out kitchen; by sending the article (a lame one) to N.S.; and by breaking into P.H. two days, I think, of memoir writing. This trough of despair shall not, I swear, engulf me. The solitude is great.
Sue couldn’t find another job. She went on plenty of interviews, but money was tight everywhere in publishing and there was nothing.
SUE MUNSINGER had also tried to throw herself into writing poetry and fiction—but every attempt felt h
