The Geography of Hunger
Eleanor Vance woke at seven in the morning in a garret apartment above a bookshop in Montparnasse, and the first thing she did was brew weak coffee and stare at the sentence she had written the night before. It was bad. It was always bad. She had written thirty-seven pages in three months, and not one of them was good. But she kept writing because the alternative was staring at the ceiling and...
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