#writ

Humility is an essential quality in writers who want to write well. ↗

— Margaret Jean Langstaff

#writing #writing-craft #writing-process #writing-craft

I did not begin with craft, I began with strong feelings and worked toward craft. ↗

— Dorothy Allison

#writing-craft

In fact, one could argue that the skill of the fiction writer boils down to the ability to exploit intensity. ↗

— James Scott Bell

#writing-craft #writing-craft

Writer's block? I've never heard of a plumber complain about plumber's block. ↗

— Robert B. Parker

#writing-craft

If you're a writer, write. And always strive for excellence. ↗

— Linda Yezak

#writing-craft #writing-philosophy #writing-craft

I’ve come to the end of another book alive. At times like this I’m always at a loss for words. ↗

— Joe Coomer

#writing-craft

A Letter to Andre Breton, Originally Composed on a Leaf of Lettuce With an Ink-dipped Carrot On my bed, my green comforter draped over my knees like a lumpy turtle, I think about the Berlin Wall of years that separates us. In my own life, the years are beginning to stack up like a Guinness World Record’s pile of pancakes, yet I’m still searching for some kind of syrup to believe in. In the shadows of my pink sheet, I see your face, Desnos’ face, and two clock faces staring at each other. I see a gaping wound that ebbs rose petals, while a sweaty armpit holds an orchestra. Beethoven, maybe. A lover sings a capella, with the frothiness of a cappuccino. Starbucks, maybe. There’s an hourglass, too, and beneath the sands lie untapped oil reserves. I see Dali’s mustache, Magritte’s pipe, and bowling shoes, which leaves the question-- If you could time travel through a trumpet, would you find today and tomorrow too loud? ↗

— Jarod Kintz

#carrot #dali #future #magritte #poem

Women writers make for rewarding (and efficient) lovers. They are clever liars to fathers and husbands; yet they never hold their tongues too long, nor keep ardent typing fingers still. ↗

— Roman Payne

#fathers #husbands #liars #lovers #lying

I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within. ↗

— Gustave Flaubert

#humour #pessimistic #writing #creativity

I want to apologize to you, Nikki. Not just, ‘hey, sorry,’ but really. Apologize.” He paused, either to let her absorb it or to find his way, then he went on, “This is all still new to both of us. You and I came to each other with full lives, past baggage, careers, the works. Both of us. And this trip of mine, this was the first time since we got together that you’re seeing what my real work is like. I have the advantage of having gone on ride-along, so you—I get your life, inside and out. Me, I’m an investigative journalist. If I’m doing it right, I’m spending big stretches of time in places nobody else has the balls to go and under conditions most reporters wouldn’t put up with. That explains why I fell off the radar on my story. I told you I might before I left. But it’s no excuse for not calling you when I got in the clear. The only explanation I can give may sound flimsy, but it’s the truth. When I come off assignment, I have a routine. I sleep like the dead and write like the devil, in seclusion. It’s the way I’ve always done it. For years. But now—I realize something’s different now. I’m not the only one involved. “Now, if I could take back the past twenty-four hours, I would, but I can’t. What I can do, though, is say when I look at you now and see the hurt in you—the hurt I caused by being insensitive—I see pain I never want to bring to you again.” He let that sit there, then said, “Nikki, I apologize. I was wrong. And I am sorry. ↗

— Richard Castle

#relationships #writing #life