#writing

Deliver me from writers who say the way they live doesn't matter. I'm not sure a bad person can write a good book. If art doesn't make us better, then what on earth is it for. ↗

— Alice Walker

#bad #good #writing #art

We are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter ↗

— Allen Ginsberg

#loyalty #madness #mental-illness #writing #friendship

There comes a time in your life when you have to choose to turn the page, write another book or simply close it. ↗

— Shannon L. Alder

#books #boyfriend #choices #faith #family

Rule number four for me as a writer? Plotlines are like sharks: They either keep moving or they die. ~J.R. Ward ↗

— J.R. Ward

#tips #writing #funny

Every work of art is aggressive, Isabella. And every artist's life is a small war or a large one, beginning with oneself and one's limitations. To achieve anything you must first have ambition and then talent, knowledge, and finally the opportunity. ↗

— Carlos Ruiz Zafón

#art

I was impressed with Jack [Kerouac]’s commitment to serious writing at the expense of everything else in his life. At a time when the middle class was burgeoning with new homes, two-tone American cars, and black-and-white TVs, when American happiness was defined by upwardly mobile consumerism, Kerouac etched a different existence and he wrote in an original language. ↗

— Sterling Lord

#language #writing #home

I shall be so glad if you will tell me what to read. I have been looking into all the books in the library at Offendene, but there is nothing readable. The leaves all stick together and smell musty. I wish I could write books to amuse myself, as you can! How delightful it must be to write books after one's own taste instead of reading other people's! Home-made books must be so nice. ↗

— George Eliot

#writing #home

I think there is a song out there to describe just about any situation. ↗

— Criss Jami

#connection #humanity #inspirational #life #music

In my craft or sullen art Exercised in the still night When only the moon rages And the lovers lie abed With all their griefs in their arms, I labour by singing light Not for ambition or bread Or the strut and trade of charms On the ivory stages But for the common wages Of their most secret heart. Not for the proud man apart From the raging moon I write On these spindrift pages Nor for the towering dead With their nightingales and psalms But for the lovers, their arms Round the griefs of the ages, Who pay no praise or wages Nor heed my craft or art. ↗

— Dylan Thomas

#age

The ideal art, the noblest of art: working with the complexities of life, refusing to simplify, to "overcome" doubt. ↗

— Joyce Carol Oates

#art #complexity #writing #art