I enjoyed Virginia Woolf's prose a lot; she had a flair for creating sentences that fill you with amazement at its creativity and beauty. The book is as the title exemplifies, all about her struggles with writing, books she read, her association with other writers, etc. it gives the impression that writing is her life, the sole purpose of her living. She was just so preoccupied with it- writing in her diary, drafting her novels, writing book reviews... she wrote of her anxieties over others' opinions of her novels- she cared too much whether others like it but eventually she managed to convince herself that what others thought were ic no significance to her.
I didn't manage to finish the book, had to return it to the library. I must admit after reading half the book it did get a little boring.
What I admired about Woolf is that she was constantly honing her craft and also had this deep interest in reading- oftentimes planing her reading list, ensuring to vary it and including Greek and French into her reading.
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