I am the best and sharpest critic of my own work. I know myself what is and what is not well written. Anyone who doesn’t write doesn’t know how wonderful it is. I used to bemoan the fact that I couldn’t draw at all, but now I am more than happy that I can at least write. And if I haven’t any talent for writing books or newspaper articles, well, then I can always write for myself.
I want to get on, I can’t imagine that I would have to lead the same sort of life as Mummy and Mrs. van Daan and all the women who do their work and are then forgotten. I must have something besides a husband and children, something that I can devote myself to!
I want to go on living even after my death! And therefore I am grateful to God for giving me this gift, this possibility of developing myself and of writing, of expressing all that is in me.
I can shake off everything if I write, my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn. But, and that is the great question, will I ever be able to write anything great, will I ever become a journalist or a writer? I hope so, oh, I hope so very much, for I can recapture everything when I write, my thoughts, my ideals and my fantasies.
I haven’t done anything more to Cady’s Life for ages. In my mind. I know exactly how to go on, but somehow it doesn’t flow from my pen.
Perhaps I never shall finish it, it may land up in the wastepaper basket, or the fire. That’s a horrible idea, but then I think to myself, ‘At the age of fourteen and with so little experience, how can you write about philosophy?’ So I go on again with fresh courage; I think I shall succeed, because I want to write!
Yours, Anne
Thursday, 6 April, 1944
