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Excerpted Inspirations #244

  • Writer: Linda Odhner, with photos by Liz Kufs
    Linda Odhner, with photos by Liz Kufs
  • 7 days ago
  • 0 min read
[Jo March feels sad and lonely after the death of her beloved sister Beth.] “Why don’t you write? That always used to make you happy,” said her mother, once, when the desponding fit overshadowed Jo. “I’ve no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things.” “We do; write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world. Try it, dear; I’m sure it would do you good, and please us very much.” “Don’t believe I can,” but Jo got out her desk, and began to overhaul her half-finished manuscripts. An hour afterward her mother peeped in, and there she was, scratching away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which caused Mrs. March to smile, and slip away, well pleased with the success of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got into that story that went straight to the heart of those who read it; for, when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it, much against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and, to her utter surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested. Letters from several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance of the little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as friends admired it. For a small thing it was a great success; and Jo was more astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all at once. “I don’t understand it. What can there be in a simple little story like that, to make people praise it so?” she said, quite bewildered. “There is truth in it, Jo, that’s the secret; humor and pathos make it alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no thought of fame or money, and put your heart into it, my daughter; you have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as happy as we are in your success.” “If there is anything good or true in what I write, it isn’t mine; I owe it all to you and mother and to Beth,” said Jo, more touched by her father’s words than by any amount of praise from the world. So, taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very charitable world to such humble wanderers; for they were kindly welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes. -Louisa May Alcott, Little Women 1868), p. 342

 
 
 

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