i wonder if that means me

when asked who my favourite writers were, on the spot i could only come up with virginia woolf. surely i have more? my problem lies, i think, in not keeping track of things. so here’s a first try, from what i could sleuth, sitting across from my piecemeal bookshelf:

the dubliners, james joyce.
the great gatsby, f. stop fitzgerald (no amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart).
of course our Adeline Virginia Stephen Woolf: the waves, mrs dalloway, a room of one’s own.
his dark materials, philip pullman.
the torn skirt, rebecca godfrey.
the bell jar, sylvia plath.
“fern hill,” dylan thomas
the perks of being a wallflower, stephen chbosky.
hamlet.
lisa moore, open and alligator.
their eyes were watching god, zora neale hurston.
“the yellow wallpaper,” charlotte perkins gilman.
the giraffe and the pelly and me, roald dahl.

(and the list will only grow. do let me know if i’ve forgotten something i love dearly.)

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