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It was our passion for words and our ardent desire to write that drew me and Michael together, and the same that drove us apart.Michael wanted to be a great playwright, like the former master Molière. He had high ambitions and scorned what I wrote as frivolous and feminine.__ll these disguises and duels and abductions,_ he said contemptuously, one day a year or so after our affair began, slapping down the pile of paper covered with my sprawling handwriting. __ll these desperate love affairs. And you wish me to take you seriously.___ like disguises and duels._ I sat bolt upright on the edge of my bed. __etter than those dreary boring plays you write. At least something happens in my stories.___t least my plays are about something.___y stories are about something too. Just because they aren__ boring doesn__ mean they aren__ worthy.___hat are they about? Love_ He clasped his hands together near his ear and fluttered his eyelashes.___es, love. What__ wrong with writing about love? Everyone longs for love.___ren__ there enough love stories in the world without adding to them?__sn__ there enough misery and tragedy?__ichael snorted with contempt.__hat__ wrong with wanting to be happy?__t__ sugary and sentimental.___ugary? I__ not sugary._ I was so angry that I hurled my shoes at his head.