In it: With the start of this novel, which began its life in a pool, I feel myself slipping beneath the surface of the idea, proceeding cautiously to explore the primordial ooze of the thing. It's dark in here, and not a little smelly, as the beginnings of new life tend to be. As I write in the character's voice, I come to some dead ends, where the idea gets small and cramped and the liquid tepid. So I stretch out to what I came for, the big somethings that brought me to begin at all. Touching back to these solids is a glimpse of light in the dark. For example:
For the novel, I've been reading about Poe. He had this to say about focus and intention in prose:
"In the whole composition, there should be no word written of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the preestablished design."
In me: I feel the novel's presence almost constantly--it's the room to which my mind returns whenever possible. I'm even sneaking through the door at unexpected times (see: the five miles I cycled while reading Proust today). These short visits are to ensure my smooth entry to the novel when I can get back to the room where I'm writing it.
At least for a little while, I do have a room of my own, luckily. But, VW also said that in order for a woman to succeed as a writer, she must not have family or work obligations, that she must not have the demands of domestic life to attend to.
Hope she was wrong on that score.