Course:A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf
| CRWR 501P 003 |
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| Advanced Writing of Poetry |
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| Important Course Pages |
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"When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Bronte who dashed her brains out on the moor or mopped and mowed about the highways crazed with the torture that her gift had put her to. Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman."
A Room of One's Own, Virginia Wolfe's extended essay, published in 1929 but originally delivered as two lectures at women's colleges of the University of Cambridge in 1928, rocked my world when I read it in 2019.
Ostensibly about 'Women and Fiction', Wolfe's essay (which itself dips in and out of fiction) lays bare the oppressive effects of patriarchy, marginalization and poverty on women throughout history who were, or might otherwise have been, writers.
A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.
This book reverberated so deeply through the foundations of my life that I'm still processing it. While I'm incredibly fortunate, and I've hardly been touched by poverty, I don't have a room of my own (unless you count hiding in the bathroom), and I don't have money of my own. Undertaking this program, I'm keenly aware of these facts. I've always struggled to prioritize my work over the care of those in my life, writing that email, booking that appointment, sweeping the floor… so many more pressing concerns that easily jump the cue. I write in my head constantly, often poetry, but I rarely afford myself the luxury of actually writing it down. I feel guilty just starting. Especially now, as a mother, there are endless demands on my time and attention.
But I need to write. When I don't it gnaws away at me slowly, hollows me out. I think I would die of grief if I stopped writing.
But then, of course, when I do write, the internalized voice of the patriarchy is always there, reminding me that my ideas are not as original, substantial, powerful or interesting as they would be if I were a man.
Literature is strewn with the wreckage of those who have minded beyond reason the opinion of others.
This book taught me that writing is a matter of survival for one who is called to it. Which is why I'm in this program, trusting my child to the care of others, writing from the moment his head hits the pillow until the next time he wakes up calling my name. I'm closing whatever doors I can find, learning to ignore the noise when there is no door to close, taking all the support I can get. I'm telling that voice in my head to fuck off.
Don't worry, Virginia, I'm not going to give up without a fight.
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