Saturday, February 17th

Winter expectation:




Winter, you had one job!!! Nothing works these days…

All I can do is wait and enjoy what I already have. There are times when you need to take action and struggle in order to get what you want, but  this is not always the case. Sometimes it’s useless to try to do anything. Other times, you can’t do anything even if you want to. And then the harsh reality hits you right in the face. Suddenly, you are not that powerful and full of yourself. You start cherishing every single moment and see a miracle in every simple action taken for granted, like sleeping, eating and even breathing.

I can see why Virginia Woolf chose to compare humans with a moth in her essay ”The  Death of the Moth”.  Aren’t the corners for the moth what goals like finishing a school, getting a job, marrying and starting a family are for humans?  Yes. Does a human who is struggling to overcome obstacles greater than themselves have more chances of success than a moth trying to fly outside through the closed window? No. No matter how big and powerful you think you are, there comes a time when accepting that you are not almighty is all you can do:

He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far-off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did.

And then you are old and you know that the ”queer spectacle” of life is coming to an end. The moth tried again and again to fly across the window, without once considering failure as an answer. You pray for one more day and attempt to do what you did all your life: deny death  live.

But the moth is hopeless when it comes to death and so are people:

The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death…O yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger than I am.

The moth, so small, so simple and so frail, fought untill he physically no longer could to fulfill his dream. Did the moth succeed? Nope. Could it be because he always assumed there is still time to achieve his full potential? Maybe. Do people take into consideration the approach of death? Nah! Only when it’s too late.  Am I like the moth? Undoubtedly.

the death of the moth





Friday, February 16th

It’s snowing outside! Huge, countless snowflakes are falling out of the grey sky, covering everything with a thin layer of snow. The world is being swallowed up by pure silence and life seems to have ceased. The night is finally here.

My parents are watching TV in the kitchen and I was forced to listen to a group of people quarreling with each other about who should take the custody of a child, while doing myself a sandwich. Had I stayed longer in that room, my ears would have started to bleed.

Safe and sound in my room now.
I went to the library today. After reading for three hours straight some criticism on Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath, I decided to take a small break which ended up in a one-hour staring session at the fish tank in the library hallway. Yep! Great job!

Came home, pick up ”A Writer’s Diary” and came across a passage in which Virginia Woolf thought about the fate of her diaries:

Sunday, March 20th,
But what is to become of all these diaries, I asked myself yesterday. If I died, what would Leo make of them? He would be disinclined to burn them; he could not publish them. Well, he should make up a book from them, I think; and then burn the body. I daresay there is a little book in them; if the scraps and scratching were straightened out a little. God knows.

Fortunately, her husband fulfilled her wish and now I have the chance to read the personal thoughts of someone for whom writing meant everything:

Saturday, December 13th
I can write and write and write now: the happiest feeling in the world.

Whenever I read her diaries, I feel like I have a supernatural power, namely seeing the future. Her future. Why? Because, as a 21st century reader, I know what happened with her books, which titles she chose in the end, if people liked her novels, everything. And when she thinks about death, I already know when and how she died. When she is feeling down and thinking that she can no longer write another book, I know that she will find the power to get over those feelings and start afresh. At the same time, I know that her good days will come to an end sooner or later:

Tuesday, June 23rd

A good day-a bad day-so it goes on…My brain is like a scale: one grain pulls it down. Yesterday it balanced: today dips.

I can’t help myself feeling a bit melancholic. I would have like her to know how many people are fascinated by her work nowadays…

My reading was interrupted by a fluffy-ball of fur who sought for attention. I guess this is all for today, because who can resist Freya?!



Thursday, February 15th

It is Thursday afternoon and I am standing in front of my laptop, trying to figure out a way to start this diary. I always admired writers’ power to give life to words and create worlds in which I have been spending most of my free days since I learned how to read. And I have always wondered how one starts writing and what writers think about while doing it? Is it that easy to write for them, be it a poem or a novel? How does the life of a writer looks like?

It’s my term break and I promise myself that the next two weeks I’m going to work on my B.A. thesis. I even made a plan yesterday, which I have already failed to stick to it. Why? Because I keep doing anything else, but not what I am supposed to do. Today was another day in which I resorted to procrastination. But there is still time and I will not let myself be discouraged by this. Days go by, and I have nothing written down on paper.

Took ”The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath” from the bookshelf and opened it at a random page:

I wrote a book yesterday. Maybe I’ll write a postscript on top of this in the next month and say I’ve sold it. Yes, after half a year of procrastinating, bad feeling and paralysis, I got to it yesterday morning, having lines in my head here and there, and Wide-Awake Will and Stay-Uppity Sue very real, and bang. I chose ten beds out of the long list of too fancy and ingenious and abstract a list of beds, and once I’d begun I was away and didn’t stop till I typed out and mailed it (8 double-spaced pages only!) to the Atlantic Press. The Bed Book, by Sylvia Plath.

Funny how doing it freed me. It was a bat, a bad-conscience bat brooding in my head. If I didn’t do it I would do nothing. A ready-made good idea and an editor writing to say she couldn’t get the idea of it out of her head. So I did it.


sylvia plath in love
Sylvia Plath in a hallway, Smith College, 1952/1953


This is what Sylvia Plath wrote in her journal for May 3, 1959, Sunday. Who said that writing is easy? Well, not this well-known poet, novelist and writer. If it took her a year to write ”The Bed Book”, and she was so talented, how in the world can I finish something? And she didn’t have internet and a nice series to keep her distracted ( I’m talking here about Suits). Maybe I should stop complaining, and get some work done… However, it helps me to know that not even writers can write when they want to. It gives me hope that I still have a chance to do something right.

It seems almost an incredible relief to know that there is someone outside oneself who is not happy all the time. 

 – Sylvia Plath, ”The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath”

This is what she said in 20 February, 1956, and after so many years, it is still relatable. And there are more things in her journal that I can perfectly understand. This is why I am into journals lately: I feel relieved that I am not the only one who think about this and that. Moreover, I know that the person behind those words is not a figment of one’s imagination, but a human being, just like me. And I would lie if I said that I am not proud of myself for sharing and understanding some of the things that Sylvia Plath herself thought.

I believe that there are people who think as I do, who have thought as I do, who will think as I do. There are those who will live, unconscious of me, but continuing my attitude, so to speak, as I continue, unknowingly, the similar attitude of those before me. 

– Sylvia Plath, ”The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath”

sylvia Plath
Sylvia Plath


People are similar and there is nothing new in my statement. Real friends are those who share those similarities with each other and fans are people who have the same interests in a person, without him or her knowing it due to some factors like the gape in time. Nowadays, there are lots of fans and few friends.

I still don’t know what to write on my blog…Maybe if I randomly open the book again, I might find an answer. It’s not like I have another idea anyway:

Remember about the shadow of past knowledge. Write about your own experience. By that experience someone else may be a bit richer some day. Read widely of others experience in thought and action; stretch to others even though it hurts and strains and would be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance! Hurl yourself at goals above your head and bear the lacerations that come when you slip and make a fool of yourself; try always, as long as you have breath in your body, to take the hard way, the Spartan way and work, work, work to build yourself into a rich, continually evolving entity! 

– Sylvia Plath, ”The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath”

Don’t mind if I do! But writing is easier when you don’t have to think about someone else reading it. It is almost midnight and I am still puzzled about how should I start my thesis. Since last summer, I am struggling to find my own voice and express it confidently. I’m running out of time because I want everything to be perfect. As Virginia Woolf said:

 if I stopped and took thought, it would never be written at all; and the advantage of the method is that it sweeps up accidentally several stray matters which I should exclude if I hesitated, but which are the diamonds of the dustheap.

-Virginia Woolf, ”A Writer’s Diary”

Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf

Therefore, what I have to do is write and never stop every two words to correct everything. Why can’t I just fill the blank paper with quotes of Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath since I agree with most of what they thought? I can do it! But is my life worth writing about? I don’t do great things and there are times I don’t live my house for days. What is interesting in that and how would that help someone?

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt. 

– Sylvia Plath, ”The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath”

So writing without worrying about it is the key to getting things done. Easier said than done! I have so much freedom, but I don’t know what to do with it. All I know is that all the students have been in my shoes and no one died yet. I can’t wait for the moment when all this will be over! For someone who does not know what to write, I think I have written enough for tonight.