As darkness fell on each painful night, I reconstructed the book from memory, trying to get a little further each time before looking back at the text. Instead of dwelling on the life I couldn't live I retold this story.
When I first heard a poet read, in a chemistry laboratory at Newcastle University, he was Ted Hughes; his gruff Yorkshire voice threw me onto a frosty moor. I could see horses. Hear horizons.
I loved the sense of living in Woolf's novels, their heady, fluttering, thoughtful sensuality, the significance of each detail; the epiphanic moments of being she evoked.
Julia Copus shares her diary in ‘My Writing Week’, encompassing a glitzy awards night in the city, the challenge of everyday administrative distractions back at home, and the role of dogs – the ‘heartbeat at my feet’ – in the lives of writers.