But he grew serious instantly.
"I don't think there is much to write about in this country, ma'am," he said.
"You don't?
Why, I believe you are trying to discourage me!" "I reckon you won't listen to me, ma'am, if you want to write.

I've heard that anyone who writes is a special kind of a person an' they just can't help writin'-- any more'n I can help comin' over here to see your brother.

You see, they like it a heap." They both laughed, she because of the clever way in which he had turned the conversation to his advantage; he through sheer delight.

But she did purpose to allow him to dwell on the point he had raised, so she adroitly took up the thread where he had broken off to apply his similitude.
"Some of that is true," she returned, giving him a look on her own account; "especially about a writer loving his work.

But I don't think one needs to be a 'special' kind of person.