Wendy Williamson spent her childhood taking flurries of words from head to paper as early as eight years old. She graduated with a B.S. in management from Virginia Tech and after a decade in corporate America, plugged in her laptop for good. Her introductory book: I’m Not Crazy Just Bipolar is a memoir of healing and hope. Her second book is due out in March of 2014.
Wendy has written for Bipolar for Dummies: 2nd Edition, BP Magazine and The Two River Times. She has been interviewed on over thirty radio stations and reviewed by Publishers Weekly and NAMI’s The Advocate. In 2009, Wendy founded the Red Bank Writers Group with over 200 current members. She writes, blogs and tweets as “bipolarwendy” which keep her laughing at herself. Wendy lives in Monmouth County with her fiance, wearing out laptops to stay sane.
Hi there, come check out my website updates. Stay tuned as I flub my way to website mastery. (Um, is there a web guy in the house?)
Let me tell you why I’ve fallen in love with Virginia Woolf.
Everyone says: you can write anywhere. If this is your full-time job, you should do it full-time. Well, it has been officially three months since I have had a desk. Writing on a hotel bed wasn’t happening. She gets it, got it rather, you know what i mean. She understood that a writer needs a room of her own. That a woman needs money of her own, preferably inheritance or landfall as she described it -wouldn’t that be nice – so that one may able to write without economic pressure. I wonder if she had that luxury. I know she was married but wonder about her earlier years. Being single and an aspiring author, while broke, sure is a bitch.
I love that she understood the need for good food, beyond satiation into overindulgence. At times I believe I overindulge, at times I think eating healthy all or most of the time is deprivation. And I’d rather be curvy, but I digress. Still I’m amazed that she gets it. I would love to have rubbed elbows with her. We share the same philosophy in all the above. Needing a room of one’s own, writing without economic pressure, satiation into overindulgence, and ah yes, the depression. We would’ve made good friends indeed. I doubt we would’ve had to say many words to each other at all.
I wish she hadn’t killed herself, but I understand her motivation. I’ve been there, though I never heard voices.
I certainly get wanting to be out of this world forever. Even the love of her life, her husband who she credited for the best years and a wonderful life couldn’t save her from her illness. She tried to drown herself weeks before she actually did, returning wet one day. Unfortunately she did again with rocks in her pocket. She did in fact write two letters to her husband. I’ve written that letter. I tried at the same place twice. I understand this women’s brain. Indeed I do…
So I’m obsessed with Virginia Woolf. I’ve decided I want to re-read most of her work (time permitting) while writing my book. She’s so clever and I think any modern female writer owes her a great deal whether they know it or not.
Alright, enough procrastination. ta ta for now!