A Room of Our Own

There's a story about Virginia Woolf; when she read Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time, she was overcome with grief, depression, writing paralysis. She thought it was a masterpiece, that there was nothing in the world like it, and she felt strongly that she would never be able to produce anything as meaningful as this work in her own life. She believed that Proust had gotten the last word on the topic of nostalgia and childhood and memories and there was nothing left for her to say. For years, she struggled with this sense of inadequacy, even pulled out In Search of Lost Time and read passage after passage when she felt particularly masochistic. She walked a tightrope between wanting to produce something as meaningful as Proust's book and wanting to give up altogether. I can identify with Virgina Woolf. On some days, I feel really really bad for her. On other days, I want to invite her over for tea, crumpets and a pity party all of our own.