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#a writer's diary
flowerytale · 1 year
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Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry featured in “A Writer’s Diary”
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petaltexturedskies · 6 months
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Virginia Woolf, A Writer's Diary
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metamorphesque · 2 years
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— A Writer's Diary, Virginia Woolf (August 31, 1928)
[text ID: This is the last day of August and like almost all of them of extraordinary beauty. Each day is fine enough and hot enough for sitting out; but also full of wandering clouds;]
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cssnder · 14 days
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Writing tip: keep a diary.
It's as simple as that, really. Make sure to write daily, and write about your feelings, thoughts or day as if you were a narrator in a novel. If a conversation stood out today, write the dialogue. If the landscape looked lovely on your way to the store and it is still weighing in your mind, describe it, and write how it made you feel. No matter how dramatic, write it. As a matter of fact, my diary entries are all very flowery and dramatic. But they're excellent writing exercises.
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misskaboom · 3 months
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Ready to write a new story 😉🖤✍🏼💋
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valkyrieland · 1 month
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1939
Thursday, November 30th. I am brain fagged and must resist the desire to tear up and cross out- must fill my mind with air and light; and walk and blanket it in fog. Rubber boots help. I can flounder over the marsh. No, I will write a little memoir.
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Thursday, August 18th, 1921.
"Here I am chained to my rock; forced to do nothing; doomed to let every worry, spite, irritation, and obsession scratch and claw and come again."
~ Virginia Woolf, A Writer's Diary
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weaponizedtit · 3 months
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the sky is high–the clouds are kind
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stopthinkingg · 3 months
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"Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness.."
-Virginia Woolf's Suicide Note
March 28, 1941
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sapphireshorelines · 2 years
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Second of September, I ate the last berry of summer, the sun still dreaming it's July twenty-first
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also, I love it so here, and have so little relaxed time to saturate myself with the minor pleasures and daily epiphanies of life that I may just stay at the apartment into the middle of september to cook and read at widener and observe the plethora of vivid details of life which I generally have to ignore for the sake of economy of time
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when summer turned to ash / from Ventimiglia to Salerno / and nothing else was left / and we were free / to run away, to play dumb or cry / one September night.
Do not faint in September/ or you will wake up in a dead city
I had a terror—since September—I could tell to none, and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground—because I am afraid.
Another day; another Friday; another twentieth of March, January, or September. Another general awakening.
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•••
Ethan Gilsdorf, The Imprint Of September Second / Joe Brainard, I remember, Three Pansies / Anne Carson, The Glass Essay / Virginia Woolf, A Writer's Diary / Sylvia Plath, letter to Gordon Lameyer / Robert David Cohen, September / Frank W. Benson, Autumn (1895) / Franco Fortini, One September Night / Anne Sexton, The Sermon of the Twelve Acknowledgement / Emily Dickinson, letter to Thomas Wentworth Higginson / Virginia Woolf, The Waves / Jackson Pollock, Autumn Rhythm (Number 30)
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frost-queen · 6 months
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If only I had the power to project my imagination into film...
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petaltexturedskies · 4 months
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Odd how rare it is to meet people who say things that we ourselves could have said. Their attitude to life much our own.
Virginia Woolf, from “A Writer’s Diary”
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metamorphesque · 2 years
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— A Writer's Diary, Virginia Woolf (August 31, 1928)
[text ID: This is the last day of August and like almost all of them of extraordinary beauty. Each day is fine enough and hot enough for sitting out; but also full of wandering clouds; and that fading and rising of the light which so enraptures me in the downs; which I am always comparing to the light beneath an alabaster bowl. The corn is now stood about in rows of three, four or five solid shaped yellow cakes—rich, it seems, with eggs and spice; good to eat. Sometimes I see the cattle galloping "like mad" as Dostoievsky would say, in the brooks. The clouds—if I could describe them I would; one yesterday had flowing hair on it, like the very fine white hair of an old man. At this moment they are white in a leaden sky; but the sun behind the house is making the grass green. I walked to the racecourse today and saw a weasel.]
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cssnder · 2 months
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That moment when you know what you want to write... but you don't know how to write it.
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fatherlybeast · 2 years
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Virginia Woolf, A Writer’s Diary
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valkyrieland · 1 month
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1941
Sunday, March 8th. Excerpts from Virginia Woolf's last diary entry. No- I intend no introspection. I mark Henry James' sentence- observe perpetually. Observe the income of age. Observe greed. Observe my own despondency. By that means it becomes serviceable. Or so I hope. I insist upon spending this time to the best advantage. I will go down with my colours flying. This I see verges on introspection but doesn't quite fall in. Suppose I bought a ticket at the museum; biked in daily and read history. Suppose I selected one dominant figure in every age and wrote round and about. Occupation is essential. And now with some pleasure I find that it's seven; and must cook dinner.
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