Diary Of A 1920s Lady Poet

This earnest woman writer is dedicated to her lady-work.

C’est moi, pausing after a day of trying to find a word that rhymes with “orange”. Photograph: Marvin Meyer

November 4th, 1924

Four o’clock, afternoon

Awaken in my bed chambers. Slept on the embroidered part of the pillow again. Right cheek now emblazoned with my monogram. Ghastly. I take my laudanum with a glass of whiskey. The tincture protects against feminine hysteria and the whiskey dulls the pain in my kneecaps from doing the Charleston last night at Percy’s.

Half past four, afternoon

Despite my knees, complete two rounds of women’s calisthenics to keep my figure.

Five o’clock, afternoon

Walk through the grounds to my writing studio. As per doctor’s orders, I smoke a handful of cigarettes to ward against artistic unremarkability. Every working day (Mondays and Tuesdays), I give myself over to my poetry — cruel mistress though she is! I take out a fresh leaf of paper. No words come. I draw a picture of a small doggie instead. Cannot find my cigarette holder.

Six o’clock, evening

After the day’s work, I stroll around the rose garden, taking in the fresh air between cigarettes.

Eight o’clock, evening