Inspiration is a fickle thing. After a while, the author found that she only had ideas while in the height of coitus. A sexual revolution ensued, as a result of which she lost her husband, her children and all her friends. The adage "familiarity breeds comtempt" proved true, she couldn't come, and the novel never got finished.

Our heroine, destitute and alone, found that prostitution provided a stable income, and she soon gave up all thoughts of writing. Until the day she died, the novel lurked, like the picture of Dorian Gray, in her attic. Most nights, she slept fine.