I do write but I don’t post it online. All my stuff is private. Sometimes I will post stuff on here but not much.
"Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself." How, Laura wonders, could someone who was able to write a sentence like that —- who was able to feel everything contained in a sentence like that —- come to kill herself? What in the world is wrong with people? Summoning resolve, as if she were about to dive into cold water, Laura closes the book and lays it on the nightstand. She does not dislike her child, does not dislike her husband. She will rise and be cheerful.
At least, she thinks, she does not read mysteries or romances. At least she continues to improve her mind. Right now she is reading Virginia Woolf, all of Virginia Woolf, book by book —- she is fascinated by the idea of a woman like that, a woman of such brilliance, such strangeness, such immeasurable sorrow; a woman who had genius but still filled her pocket with a stone and waded out into a river.
Excert from The Hours by Michael Cunningham
This just means so much to me. I forgot to say that in the first post.