I have finished reading A Writer's Diary today and it feels like I've lost a friend. I started reading that book my second year in college. I still remember sitting in my immunology class feeling out of place in the sea of premeds. I don't know why I read that book waiting for the lecture to begin instead of talking to the people around me. I just distinctly remember reading it and feeling comforted.

It was sad when I was nearing the end of a page because I already knew the denouement so well: the end of her diary means the end of her days. I thought when someone decides to take one's life, it's after years of wanting death. But it seems v. woolf was concerned more with preserving life in her old age than with dying. Of course I am sure the diary has been heavily edited out by Leonard... but I do still try to piece together the psychological world of hers. I think that's exactly what Leonard wanted to prevent. He wanted to put together entries that show her as a writer only.

And well, I was surprised (I don't know why I should be) that writing was such a struggle for her. And I felt that towards the end, it was becoming too hard and labored. Writing is hard but it's wonderful to have a job where you create. I think people work for someone (office job), be a technician (doctor, lawyer), or create (artist, writer). I think we all want to be a creator, but settle for the other two. I think the perfect solution is to become a professor. You get paid, you don't have to be the best writer, and you can surround yourself with intelligent people.

Well I digress. So I do miss the book very much. I don't know why I read it so slowly. I finally made up my mind to finish it a few days ago and I felt a great resistance to that idea. Well, I think I should read Between the Acts now. I think that book is really the end of A Writer's Diary for some reason.