#writer

There’s a writer for you,” he said. “Knows everything and at the same time he knows nothing.” [narrator]It was my first inkling that he was a writer. And while I like writers—because if you ask a writer anything you usually get an answer—still it belittled him in my eyes. Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person. It’s like actors, who try so pathetically not to look in mirrors. Who lean backward trying—only to see their faces in the reflecting chandeliers. ↗

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

#descriptions #insider #people #perceptions #writers

There is nothing harder to estimate than a writer's time, nothing harder to keep track of. There are moments—moments of sustained creation—when his time is fairly valuable; and there are hours and hours when a writer's time isn't worth the paper he is not writing anything on. ↗

— E.B. White

#humor #writers #writers-on-writing #writing #writing-life

He offered her power, money, status... a giant prison, all in exchange for only...her soul. ↗

— Coco J. Ginger

#love #lovers #money #power #prison

Art is not in some far-off place. ↗

— Lydia Davis

#creativity #writer-s-block #art

It is something to have gazed on the constellated white, felt it running from the eyes and the pores: the salt of love. It is something to have whispered wild thank-yous in the only ways we know how. ↗

— Bryana Johnson

#free-verse #hamlet #poetry-life #shakespeare #the-quintessence-of-dust

Realize that by hurting your own characters, you are not a sadist. You are not deliberately hurting your loved ones merely to watch them suffer. You’re giving a gift. You’re helping them grow and develop. Your characters take on deeper meaning to become more alive on your pages. They’ll become real. ↗

— James Chartrand

#pain #writer #writing #love

This is the way I want to die. Torn apart by angry fans who want me to play a different song. ↗

— Regina Spektor

#fans #funny #humor #songwriter #death

Some writers, no matter how good they are, can't speak to us. Something about the way they see the world, I think, string sentences together, alienates us as surely as the ramblings of a madman on a bus. ↗

— David Bowker

#death

I read not so long ago about the construction of a large telescope in Chile's Atacama Desert, where rainfall can average a millimetre a year and the air is fifty times as dry as the air in Death Valley. Needless to say, skies over the Atacama are pristine. The pilgrim astronomer ventures to the earth’s ravaged reaches in order to peer more keenly at other worlds, and I suppose the novelist is up to something similar. ↗

— Brad Leithauser

#astronomy #chile #metaphor #novelists #telescope

His death took place on the same day, at the same time of the same month as Katie’s: Monday 12th November at 4am in the morning, on her tenth year anniversary. The old radio suddenly came live and the song Immortality by Celine Dion played. Emma proved you can love the man and hate the disease. She was relieved Ronan’s suffering had ended and that he had gone before her as he was so ill ↗

— Annette J. Dunlea

#annette-j-dunlea #irish-writer #death