Virginia Woolf had Problems Too!

I thought, driving through Richmond last night, something very profound about the synthesis of my being: how nothing makes a whole unless I am writing. – Virginia Woolf, Diary Vol. 4

Right now I should be working on my master's thesis on Virginia Woolf, but my brain did manage to convince the rest of me that this blog post is related to my thesis and therefore counts as working on my thesis. 

As many of us may know, Virginia Woolf had problems. We probably know that on March 28, 1941, she walked to the River Ouse, filled her pockets with stones, and drowned herself. 

What I didn't know was that despite the fact that Virginia Woolf is one of the greatest authors, ever, she was also one of us. By this, I mean, if she were alive today and wanted to self-publish her novel on Amazon, she would be going through a lot of the same things us normal folks have gone through. I am going to quote from some of her diary entries so you can see what I mean:

George Eliot would never read reviews, since talk of her books hampered her writing. I begin to see what she meant. I don't take praise or blame excessively to heart, but they interrupt, cast one's eyes backward, make one wish to explain or investigate.

It is worth mentioning, for future reference, that the creative power which bubbles so pleasantly in beginning a new book quiets down after a time, and one goes on more steadily. Doubts creep in. Then one becomes resigned...writing is always difficult.

I don't know why it always amazes me that the greatest authors doubted their abilities. They dreaded and sometimes received bad reviews. They had writer's block. 

Virginia Woolf loved writing. She lived for it. Writing is what got her though tough times. It made her feel better. When she was institutionalized her doctors would not let her write. They said it was bad for her mental health. They knew nothing. 

Melancholy diminishes as I write.

In Virginia Woolf's suicide note she believed she was beginning another breakdown. 

I can't fight any longer...You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read...If anybody could have saved me it would have been you.

Here is my all-time favorite Virginia Woolf quote:

Yet who reads to bring about an end, however desirable? Are there not some pursuits that we practise because they are good in themselves, and some pleasures that are final? And is not this among them? I have sometimes dreamt, at least, that when the Day of Judgment dawns and the great conquerors and lawyers and statesmen come to receive their rewards–their crowns, their laurels, their names carved indelibly upon imperishable marble–the Almighty will turn to Peter and will say, not without a certain envy when he sees us coming with our books under our arms, “Look, these need no reward. We have nothing to give them here. They have loved reading."