Apparently, I’m allergic to Virginia Woolf.
Or, at least my copy of A Room of One’s Own.
As I wrote in my previous post, my First Book of the Year selection was to be Woolf’s longform essay on women and writing. Perfect for the beginning of this year, for several reasons.
But as soon as I opened it, I started sneezing.
An hour of this. Remnants of the sinus/migraine nonsense from earlier? Some reaction to the chamomile and mint tea?
“I wonder if this book was in someone’s attic,” I wondered between sneezes. I’d purchased it a few weeks ago at Half Price Books.
“Get rid of it,” The Husband said. “It’s killing you.”
“But it’s my First Book of the Year.”
I sneezed again.
“You’re not going to make it to your second book of the year if you keep reading that book.”
I checked the library’s website to see if the e-book was available. (It’s checked out; I put a hold on it.) I checked another library’s catalog. They don’t own it.
I answered with a sneeze.
The Husband stared at me.
“Get. Rid. Of. It.”
“We’ll sell it — ACHOO! — back,” I said, taking it down to the garage.
In a matter of minutes, my sneezing stopped.
So, we change direction. Pick something else. Go with Plan B, the book I was planning to read after Virginia Woolf.
Boys in the Trees by Carly Simon.
Now if only I could get the lyrics of “Coming Around Again” out of my head.
Daddy breezes in
So good on paper
But so bewildering ….