"It's mostly the period," Diana replied with interest. Writing, being her official profession, was something she liked to talk about. "Women writers aren't really taken seriously, yet. I mean, the nineteenth century kind of had a spurt of brilliance in the genre, what with Austen, Brontë, Shelley, and even Louisa May Alcott. But, still, those aren't quite as celebrated in the contemporary period as they are..." As if realizing she was about to talk about the future, Diana stopped mid-sentence and rephrased, "I guess what I'm saying is that they aren't appreciated the way they deserve."
Granted, Diana knew she obviously wasn't convincing as a contemporary in her attire, but still. If she was going to fit in, she had to practice. At present, she was doing a rather poor job of it. She was too intellectual, and that wasn't for common folk in the 1930's. Especially women. It was difficult for Diana to restrain herself, though, having degrees in psychology and anthropology made her prone to these kinds of rambles.
"Well, if you want to continue assessing, I could come along? I want to do the same, really." Diana was a bit taken aback when he extended a hand toward her in a gesture that she had assumed was uncharacteristic. Nevertheless, she took the hand and shook it with as much manly fervor as she could muster. "Name's Diana. Nice to meet you. They've got me selling things, which is fine. Lots of downtime, so I can keep writing." And sell some of that, too, came a follow-up thought.