Death came and hung her coat

by Amy Turn Sharp



In my novel there is a bit of Virginia Woolf. She is woven in and out a bit and I have been day dreaming about her. I want desperately to visit her estate in Sussex owned by the national trust this year. If we don't sell this other home then Joe will go alone to England this Fall, but if we do mama is so taking a train by herself to Sussex!!!!

I want to walk along the river Ouse and let my mind wander. I want to find that small particle I am still looking for, that thread that catches and straps the book together a bit better. I am searching here in Ohio, but I feel like I could discover more there. I think about TS Eliot and the Bloomsbury group and how I always thought I might have made a good beatnik, but now rather think about how I would have made a good Bloomsgal. I love reading about the English collective of modern thought. I love watching films and documentaries. I like the way they dressed.

I had the pleasure of knowing a woman for a little while in Athens, Ohio who was a Woolf scholar and at that precise moment in my formative brain molding, I did not get it all. I was uncertain why someone would want to dive so deep into Woolf.
I am starting to get it now. My mind grew and unfolded and every time I read Woolf now I see that spark in that scholars eyes-
I feel that spark in my own eye.

It flickers like a beacon to other women artists.
It shines.

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