Virginia Woolf is a damned hero. In 1928 she was calling out (in no uncertain terms) the sexism, misogyny, and economic stranglehold under which women have been trying to create for thousands of years. The idea that women need and deserve the same space and support as men in order to do their creative work is still considered a ridiculous notion in most of the world - including the west, where women are emancipated to work their asses off all day and then do the bulk of household work, leaving nothing for themselves and their creative endeavors.

This is a short book, so I razed through it in two days and now I'm burning with indignation and the resolve to make space for myself as a writer who is also a woman.