I'm dipping into Virginia Woolf's Selected Letters a lot these days, as I intermittently would, and I'm slightly saddened by the fact that I can't write anywhere as lovely as she does.

These days, I'm buoyed up by a sort of hope. I'm sure I would do injustice to that emotion with bad prose - besides, it's quite disgusting to talk about one's hopes and fears and dreams and sorrows in the public sphere. It's this happiness to write, and to write well. I'm swamped by three assignments now (oh, the injustice!), and I'd rather write something here, fretting about how a sentence would sound, than to read articles for my assignments.