#block

But you know, I always said that no one else on my block was on the radio, and it was fun. ↗

— Ed Bradley

#block #else #fun #i #i always

I have felt in my very blood, ever since I was born, a most unconquerable hatred towards the whole tribe of fools, and it arises from the fact that I feel myself a blockhead whenever I am in their company. ↗

— Giacomo Casanova

#arises #blockhead #blood #born #company

I'm not sure why writing for others became harder. Probably a reluctance to give away anything you might conceivably use yourself caused a block. I did it, but it remained hard when it had once been easy. ↗

— Dick Cavett

#away #became #been #block #caused

Well, it's not full time - my dancers are only paid for six months of the year in two three-month blocks; but yes, it is possible we could do it in another year. ↗

— Siobhan Davies

#blocks #could #dancers #full #months

Lorna was quite young when her mother died, and I think she's blocked out some of the memories. I talked to her a little bit about that, but I wasn't prepared to go around and poke and hurt her. ↗

— Judy Davis

#around #bit #blocked #died #go

I've often said that there's no such thing as writer's block; the problem is idea block. ↗

— Jeffery Deaver

#i #idea #often #problem #said

I'm not Blockbuster Boy. ↗

— Johnny Depp

#boy #i

Writing is hard. Not as hard as not writing. Not writing is torturous, bloody, chaotic and a gruesome winless battle. A writer who writes, knows peace, lives connected to truth. Not writing is ache, betrayal, death of the soul and imagination. ↗

— Coco J. Ginger

#betrayal #death #imagination #jamie-weise #love

I gradually realized that I was seeing another example of creative ebb, another step by another art on the road that may indeed end in extinction. ↗

— Stephen King

#extinction #writer-s-block #writing #writing-process #art

One thing I knew about the novelist’s task: when in doubt, write; when empty, write; when afraid, write. Nothing is more impenetrable than the blank page. The blank page is the void, the absence of sense and feeling, the white light of literary death. ↗

— Philip Sington

#death