Imagine it's April 1854 in Boston and you're in the offices of your publishing company

Tickner and Fields. Fatigue is getting the better of you as you sit at your desk, tapping your fingers against the worn wooden surface.

All morning you've been working your way through a stack of manuscripts, but so far nothing's caught your interest. A young woman pulls back the heavy

green curtain that separates you from your assistant. She wears a plain dress and

her dark hair is pinned back neatly. You recognize her as Louisa, the daughter of your friend

Bronson Alcott. Ah, Miss Alcott, please have a seat. You gesture toward the chair on the other

side of your desk. She sits down, smiling nervously.

Thank you, sir. What brings you here today? I've brought an essay for your consideration.

You nod warily, stealing yourself to evaluate the work of a friend's daughter.

You never expected her to visit your office unannounced.

Ah, I see.

Well, hand it over. With trembling hands, she hands you several handwritten pages.

It's about the seven weeks I spent working as a companion and servant to an elderly man and his

invalid daughter.

The work was grueling and my employer expected me to spend hours each day fawning over him.

Well after seven terrible weeks I was only paid four dollars.

It was a miserable experience, but I thought it would make for a good essay.

You begin skimming the essay. The writing is earnest, but it lacks authority. It strikes you that it's a little more than a list of complaints.

You put the essay down, take a deep breath.

Stick to your teaching, Miss Alcott.

You can't write.

She looks at you with disbelief.

...