28th March 1941: Virginia Woolf, Dead at 59

Virginia Woolf drowned on this day in 1941, her pockets deliberately heavy with stones. Did she, I wonder, caress their smooth surfaces with the pads of her thumbs, as she waded into the water? Did she choose her death-coat because it had roomy pockets, or because it was her favourite? Was she being sentimental or practical?

Virginia Woolf, 1902

Virginia Woolf, 1902

The River Ouse received her whilst her books were on shelves in libraries and homes around the world. It wasn’t enough, but why should it be? Private wars are always the hardest fought, and are seldom won.

What words and ideas did she leave unwritten? Would they have changed literature, changed the world, changed me? Ah, but we’ll never know.

Creativity and the Macabre: Forever is Composed of Nows

Ideas often come alive for me at strange or inconvenient moments. After the ever-trusty shower, I usually feel the most open to creativity when I am…….

walking amongst graves. My husband and I are lucky to live a few minutes from the second largest cemetery in the United States. Established in 1845, it is equally an arboretum, with 15 lakes, trees, flowers and wildlife set within what, at times, looks like traditional parkland. Continue reading