Obviously, N could only belong to Anaïs Nin.
Equally well-known for her multi-volume diary and her smutty stories, Ms. Nin was quite the renaissance woman. She was the most divine embodiment of the beauty with brains, matching wits with philosophers and engaging in a “bicoastal trapeze” while simultaneously married to two different husbands. And let’s not forget her affair with Henry Miller. She wrote erotic stories for an anonymous patron, who perpetually urged her to leave out the “art” and amp up the sex; naturally, she rebelled and became known as one of the first and best female writers in the genre. But she also broke records with her diary, starting at 11 years old and continuing up to her death.
Is there, really, any more prodigious a writer than Anaïs Nin? Surely no one can compete with her output, though Joyce Carol Oates certainly tries.
Nin was certainly not like the average woman—nor would she ever have wanted to be. It’s just one reason I admire her. Her writing is also passionate, bold, feminist, fun, dark, deep, fabulously French in its raison d’être and tone. She once wrote in her diary:
The role of the writer is not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to say. Most of the writing today which is called fiction contains such a poverty of language, such triteness, that it is a shrunken, diminished world we enter, poorer and more formless than the poorest cripple deprived of ears and eyes and tongue. The writer’s responsibility is to increase, develop our senses, expand our vision, heighten our awareness and enrich our articulateness.
What do you think? Is there wisdom in Anaïs Nin’s observation, or do you prefer the dry realism of modern literature?
P.S. If you’re hankering for more A to Z Challenge madness, don’t forget to check out my “Ninja Weapons from A to Z” post at rebelsofthe512.com!


