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Excerpt from:
The Story Of My Life, Part 4
I was still excessively scrupulous about everything I wrote. The thought that what I wrote might not be absolutely my own tormented me. No one knew of these fears except my teacher. A strange sensitiveness prevented me from referring to “The Frost-King”; but often when an idea flashed out in the course of conversation I would spell softly in her hand, “I am not sure it is mine.” At other times, in the midst of a paragraph I was writing, I said to myself, “Suppose it should be found that all this was written by some one long ago!” An impish fear clutched hold of my hand, so that I could not write any more that day. And even now I sometimes feel the same uneasiness and disquietude....