Upon reading , "The Hours"

Finally finishing Mrs. Dalloway by Mrs. Woolf led me to read The Hours, a book I was supposed to read for a class back when I used to have classes. I didn't remember why I put down The Hours (michael cunningham. he recieved a pulitzer for this novel......) It reminds me why I fear writing and often feel that he who calls himself a writer is truly Not a writer.
I rather detest his idea of writing his own personal interpretation of Mrs. Woolf's life, I dislike his idea to combine her writings with the lives of two other women who have been made to relate to Mrs. Dalloway. Now, I am no one to say anything critical concerning this book seeing how he won the Pulizter, (the Pulizter! dear god) adding to this thought that he is published and I am not. But to say in the least that we award people noble prizes for saying something that has all ready been said. How could I write? So much has all ready come forth in the way of brillance through written words. To be fair I will finish the book, but it amazes me to think that some "writer" has the gall to record another authors life in his own words and own pictures. Too much description, too much poetic imagery, and too much liberty taken in his idea.

It makes me not want to write. How did Virgina ever put pen to paper? She killed herself.