Best 30386 quotes in «writing quotes» category

She’d always pictured her future self as a lone wolf traveling around the world, ensnaring romantic conquests and achieving her wildest and most ambitious goals. She didn’t think that at nineteen she would be so dependent on other people; she pictured herself as an autonomous and untouchable force that occasionally flitted back home to show off her new feathers before flying away to her life that was much more exciting than theirs.

(She catches sight of herself in the mirror. Go in fear of hyperbole)

She got inside me with her story. I could feel her flowing in me and far, faraway I related in parallel. Her smile was a reflection of my own brokenness. It defined buried feelings that I could never ignore.

She had a habit of walking around in white cotton panties and writing poetry on the back of crumpled envelopes.

She had more of me then I had of myself. We were both wild birds chasing the stars. We’d lose our way and find new places, close our eyes and fall back towards a constellation of dreams. We wrapped ourselves in a blanket of passion and each night we fell deeper without control, into this strange space called love.

She had the power to change the world but she couldn't save the one she loved.

She has a beautiful heart that plays a euphonious symphony. She is the Zahir that touches your Soul.

[...] She knew it a book it was not just a book. Everything had a meaning. There was an invisible web that connected the words. It was like magic

She lay on the leaves Staring at the sky while her Bones decay and rot. 2-29-2016

She logged in and read a few of her old posts, smiling at the issues she had raged about and shaking her head at how some of the rants now seemed pretentious and judgmental. She had grown so much without even realizing she had. Mythili typed out the draft, spicing it up subtly and after a last read, she published it. Admiring the brand new post on her main page, she realized she missed writing. She had barely written anything since her last by-line. Typing this out, she felt like she was back with a long-lost friend who understood her. It was like snuggling up in a warm blanket when a thunderstorm raged outside.

She looked at the last thing she had written and she felt calm. Then she crossed the words out vehemently, scribbling until even the shape of the sentence was destroyed.

She liked the way the words sounded. She imagined them floating above her in a comic-strip bubble

She lost touch with reality and was dragged into her imagination.

She meant you have to live a story for a time.' 'And?' 'And then you can write it, in time. What have you lived?' 'Kind of a personal question for Twitterland.' 'Kind of the perfect question to answer in fiction.

She noticed the lemony yellow light in her dream and heard nothing of her alarm clock so continued to dream and dreamt of Jamestown and the sound of the foghorns over the water and the gulls and every night that was the breath of the day before.

She [Mary Maclane] is almost always referred to as “confessional.” She has been referred to, several times, as the first blogger. Whereas her writing does not confess much - it is much more spiritual memoir than anything, or perhaps something akin to a mystic’s courtly love, directed at the self. I am wondering what distinguishes writing as confessional… I keep on feeling I prefer the latter-day MacLane, the diary she wrote while convalescing from scarlet fever back home in Butte, Montana, I, Mary MacLane, that Melville House is only publishing as an ebook. Mary MacLane melancholy, totally isolated. Feeling intense disquiet. Now in her early thirties, meditating on her whirlwind celebrity, in cities, feeling distanced from all that, but longing for it too. Obsessed with the Mary MacLane who stopped writing, or stopped publishing books, who was involved with the anarchist/bohemian crowd in Chicago, with the Dill Pickle, who died in poverty and obscurity on the South Side at the age of 48. I want to write about her, but I don’t know how or why yet.

She met a boy and called him Stargazer because instead of poems he recited the names of constellations. He said the freckles on his arms were roadmaps to the sky, and the bruises that he carried were supernovas in disguise. "Stargazer

She reminded me that I could write stories,/ could be struck by lightning & live.

She sighed once, wishing she had a talent for the details of telling stories. She wasn't bad at themes, she mused, but she could never figure out how to turn a theme into an engaging tale. So she read instead, and admired those who could.

She shakes him; that is what she presumable does to other readers too. That is, presumably why, in the larger picture, she exists. What a strange reward for a lifetime of shaking people: to be conveyed to this town in Pennsylvania and given money!

She's a writer. The kind of writer who wouldn't be published outside. She believes that when one deals with words, one deals with the mind.

She thought so hard all the time. Always writing, writing. I think it was a mercy killing. She asked him to kill her and he did. And then, of course, yes, he ate her.

She used to write all the time,' Elizabeth explained, 'before she lost all that weight. Remember? When she was the butt of everyone’s jokes instead of the girl all the boys want to date?

She tried to slip out of his embrace without waking him up, but she felt him stir as she moved his hand. She turned to look at him and saw that he was wide awake, staring at her. Without saying a word, he pulled her closer and kissed her on the mouth. Her first morning kiss! She had always wondered how couples could kiss with a night-long breath, without rinsing their mouth. It had always disgusted her. But, now, as he kissed her on the mouth and she opened her mouth to welcome his tongue, she felt a deep connection with him. As if he was sharing a part of his soul through the morning kiss. - Story 106 of You Me & Stories

She was a passionate reader, and she thought that reading was one of the noblest efforts of all; in contrast, she found writing to be a great waste of time—a childish self-indulgence, even messier than finger painting—but she admired reading, which she believed was an unselfish activity that provided information and inspiration. She must have thought it a pity that some poor fools had to waste their lives writing in order for us to have sufficient reading material. (page 236)

She wanted me to remember that pleasure is political--for the capacity to relax and play renews the spirit and makes it possible for us to come to the work of writing clearer, ready for the journey. (bell hooks about Toni Cade Bambara)

She wasn't broken. She was just bent, over the chance of being ignored by the one she loved.

She was the reason I started to write but her beauty is kept me writing.

She would keep playing the role of the winner as long as the audience believed her.

Short stories are very different from novel-length works. From the structure point of view, there are fewer characters, no subplots, and a lot less description of the setting and the characters populating the story. A short story simply doesn’t have room for world building… obviously. You grab the story with the first few words and don’t let go or digress for a minute. There is no room for exposition… or pretty descriptions of fashion or cool explanations of scientific principles on which the story is based or commentary of how computer interfaces changed in the future. A novel has room to think, to orchestrate multiple melodies on a theme, whereas a short story is a driven commentary on a single cord.

She would have thought that working and living in continuous happiness, harmony, and security day after day would lead to mental lethargy, that her writing would suffer from too much happiness, that she needed a balanced life with down days and miseries to keep the sharp edge on her work. But the idea that an artist needed to suffer to do her best work was a conceit of the young and inexperienced. The happier she grew, the better she wrote.

Show me the contract.

Should he make a note? He felt for the smooth shape of his pen in his pocket. 'Theme for a novel: The contrary pull ... " No. If this notion were real, he needn't make a note. A notion on which a note had to be made would be stillborn anyway, his notebook was a parish register of such, born and dead on the same page. Let it live if it can. ("Novelty")

Should I even write? I have written before and later regretted what was put to paper. I will write, but do not hold to me it. I am a man, a sojourner, on a journey of discovery and change.

Show up for your dream, and own it.

Signs imply ways of living, possibilities of existence, they are the symptoms of an overflowing (jaillissante) or exhausted (épuisée) life. But an artist cannot be content with an exhausted life, nor with a personal life. One does not write with one's ego, one's memory, and one's illnesses. In the act of writing there's an attempt to make life something more personal, to liberate life from what imprisons it...There is a profound link between signs, the event, life, and vitalism. It is the power of nonorganic life, that which can be found in a line of a drawing, a line of writing, a line of music. It is organisms that die, not life. There is no work of art that does not indicate an opening for life, a path between the cracks. Everything I have written has been vitalistic, at least I hope so, and constitutes a theory of signs and the event.

Silence is a cage. These words are my wings.

Simplicity saves strength.

Signs don’t shout; they whisper.

Silence is death, and you, if you talk, you die, and if you remain silent, you die. So, speak out and die.

Signs form a language, but not the one you think you know.

Silences of my days Silences of my wanderings Silences of my nights Silences of my loneliness Silences of my work Silences of my insanity Silences of my dreams Silences of my craziness Silences of my passions Silences of my reading Silences of my obsessions Silences of my writing Silences of my thoughts Silences of my pondering Silences of my emotions Silences of my aching Silences of my stares Silences of my pining Silences of my feelings Silences of my longing Silences where I truly live My Silences Leave me to my silences...

Simplicity is efficient.

Since I am never alone with myself. Since I am always watching the character playing my part in the scene, there is no possibility of spontaneity.

Since when did books ever solve anything? They only raise more questions than they answer, otherwise they’re just fucking entertainment, and I am not here to fucking entertain you.

Sit here, so I may write you into a poem and make you eternal.

Sitting to think of what to write will only set your ass on fire, give you headache, twist your face to look stupid, instead, walk around with a blank mind and something from somewhere will fill it up.

Słowo jest moją używką, moim narkotykiem, rozsmakowałem się w przedawkowywaniu

Small boys often produce their own plays; but usually the parts are not written out. They hardly need to be, for the main line of each character is always "Stick 'em up!" In these plays the curtain is always rung down on a set of corpses, for small boys are by nature through and uncompromising.

Since language is the only tool with which writers can reflect and shape a culture, it must be transformed into art. Language is not a limitation on the art of literature; it is a glorification. It has been the scaffolding inside which nations and philosophies have been built, and the language of literature has added the ornamental pediment by which the culture is remembered.