That's the title of my book. But you'll never be able to read it unless I finish it. I'll be back on September 1 to tell you that it's in the mail. Until then, with the diswasher fixed, I will be happily (?), anxiously ensconced in my closet, listening to Evening Music on WNYC and checking footnotes at night, trying to get to the Public Library during the day to study amidst all the other book-writing New Yorkers.
I spare you the twists and turns of my cogitations, for no conclusion was found on the road to Headingly, and I ask you to suppose that I soon found out my mistake about the turning and retraced my steps to Fernham.
--Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own (1929)