#tin

he had been making an unsuccessful effort to write something about nothing in particular ↗

— Aldous Huxley

#writing #writers-block

Why do I keep evading my work? Is it because I’m afraid of being confronted by my lack of abilities? ↗

— Candace Bushnell

#work #writers-block #writing #writers-block

I haven't written in a week. It's like holding your breath under water. You feel an awful constriction and then the instinct to propel yourself. ↗

— D.A. Botta

#writers-block #writing #writist #writers-block

He had a book to finish. Ten-thousand words. The other ninety thousand had been difficult. This last tenth seemed impossible. His plot had become derailed. He was unable to see his way through the smoke and coke dust of a mythical railway track that should stretch ahead. Yes, the characters were there, good and solid. Indeed, the story's engine was strong and had shunted yet forward and forward, with only one or two sharp halts. But six weeks ago he met the bumpers. R. was now stuck in a deserted station, his progress blocked. ("Out Back") ↗

— Garry Douglas Kilworth

#writers #writing #writers-block

The trouble with a baby, for writists, is that they take away your useful melancholy, even the energy to invent some. ↗

— D.A. Botta

#writers-block #writing #writist #writers-block

Maybe the real problem wasn’t that she had nothing to write about, but that she had too much. Maybe she wasn’t afraid of her finiteness after all, but rather Infinity and how it called her to begin somewhere, anywhere. To begin might be an acceptance that indeed she was some kind of creator, with tremendous powers. It might mean taking people’s lives into her hands–her own life, her friends’, even her father’s or mother’s. And maybe she was afraid they would think she had animated a wandering Frankenstein no one wanted to hold. ↗

— L.L. Barkat

#mary-shelley #writer-s-block #writing #writers-block

If she was going to write a novel, she felt defeated before she began, because someone might be coming along to pick it apart, looking for symbols like The Conch or The Whale, which seemed to have mythic proportions. ↗

— L.L. Barkat

#novel-writing #writers #writers-block #writing #writers-block

A writer is always writing for someone. ↗

— L.L. Barkat

#writing #writers-block

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. ↗

— L.L. Barkat

#novel-writing #writers #writers-block #writing #writers-block

All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. ↗

— William Shakespeare

#humanity #life #mankind #poetry #roles