Rachel Monroe has an essay This Recording about lady writers and ennui. It’s really good. She says she used to imagine Joan Didion as her spirit-animal, which made me laugh out loud and spill smoothie on my notebook. Yay for kindred spirits.
The problem that Virginia Woolf doesn’t deal with — and so, perhaps, those stones, that river — is that once you have the room of your own, you still have to sit there, in your chair, with your own brain.