“But I never wrote one in my life.”
“Then this will be the first.”
“Oh, I'll try, sir. I've tried a hundred things in my life and they none of them proved so hard as they looked. What kind of story?”
“The only kind of story that is worth a button—a true story—the story of Thomas Robinson, alias Scott, alias Lyon, alias etc.”
“Then you should have brought a ream instead of a quire.”
“No! I want to read it when it is written. Now write the truth—do not dress or cook your facts. I shall devour them raw with twice the relish, and they will do you ten times the good. And intersperse no humbug, no sham penitence. When your own life lies thus spread out before you like a map, you will find you regret many things you have done, and view others with calmer and wiser eyes; for self-review is a healthy process. Write down these honest reflections, but don't overdo it—don't write a word you don't feel. It will amuse you while you are at it.”
“That it will.”
“It will interest me more than the romance of a carpet writer who never saw life, and it may do good to other prisoners.”
“I want to begin.”
“I know you do, creature of impulse! Let me feel your pulse again. Ah! it has gained about ten.”