A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf

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I have read the essays assigned for this unit before, but they are never tiring. Each one holds a piece of my truth in what writing means to me and sheds light on what each writer interprets good writing is to them. As far back as I can remember, I have always written my thoughts down. I would describe myself as, “not a reader, but I am a person that writes”. If I used the word “writer”, it was in lieu of the word “reader”, it was not as a title or a designation, it was an adjective only. Even after completing an entire book 8 years ago, I did not consider myself an author or a “writer”. It was not until recently that I even understood the power of the designation of being called a WRITER!

In a previous class, I had to research and write a paper after reading the assigned class essays, then pick one of the writers to imitate. I chose Virginia Woolf’s speech A Room of One’s Own (Shakespeare’s Sister) (Wolfe, 1929) to try to become the intricate writer. My story was named the curtains of One’s Own Window, and my writing took over my entire being. I wrote sentences that I would have never thought possible that came out of my soul as if Ms. Woolf herself possessed me. Woolf’s speech was supposed to be about women and fiction writers, but ended up being a grand tale of her process of accepting and understanding the responsibility and weight of what she had been asked to do. She told of her journey on how she found her words for that particular speech. The burden and responsibility she felt from being asked to represent all women, their role in history and finally to their evolvement into writing fiction was amusing to me, yet a bit long winded. My essay imitating her was almost as long winded, but thankfully it too ended with a prof...

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... the utmost greatest gift of words, but lacks the ability to communicate them on its own. Therefore, it searches out, and then enters into different people at different times to use them as its muse in order to satisfy its unending desire to tell its tales. We who write are its tool and we become enamored, and feel its frustration, then sympathize to then be possessed by its desire. We then come to be consumed and compelled to gift to the “writer” our own words and give it some peace unto its thwarted soul. Good writing is simply to allow yourself to be used in that fashion.

Works Cited

Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein or the Modern Prometheus. London. Published Lackington, Hughes, Harding, Mavor & Jones. 1818.

Woolf, Virginia. A Room of One’s Own. 1928. Cambridge University. Retrieved from Project Gutenberg Australia at http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks02/0200791.txt.

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