#writing

Being an author of a book is like being a mother of a debutante in the Middle Ages. You have to present your baby to society and provide her with dowry, and in your heart, you hope that some royalty spends a night with her and ensures her way to success. ↗

— Elvira Baryakina

#age

I want to write a poem about "Truth," "Honor," "Dignity," and whether the toilet paper should roll over or under when you pull on it. ↗

— Jarod Kintz

#honor #life #poem #toilet-paper #truth

I think poor poetry writing skills are excused when you’re simply trying to flush out emotions. ↗

— Katie Kiesler

#poetry #writing #age

When the writing is good, a book becomes a mirror. The reader will see an uncanny familiarity and respond accordingly. ↗

— Jen Knox

#jen-knox #musical-chairs #philosophy #psychology #reading

Sophisticated readers understand that writers work out their anger, their conflicts, their endless grief and rolling list of loss, through their stories. That however mean-spirited or diabolical, it's only a story. That the darkness in the soul is shaped into type and lies there, brooding and inert, black on the page, and active, dangerous, only in the reader's mind. Actually, harmless. I am not harmless. ↗

— Amy Bloom

#writers #writing #anger

Let it out. That is the first step. All the anger and fear and sadness. I'll be here to pick up the pieces. ↗

— Shikikazu

#anger

He was miles past middle age with a gut that housed ample good meals. A patch of silver hair formed a trail from his forehead to the crown of his head where it dead ended with male pattern baldness. A sea of family photos took up residence on his desk. He sat back in a high-back leather swivel chair. Steepled hands. Robert Last Boots in Cognac Cordovan. Blue collar city worker with prestigious white collar dreams. ↗

— Brandi L. Bates

#age

.. they look like they've escaped from a nursing home. Everywhere I turn I see puffy skin & radiant expressions, crinkles & pearls, broad smiles & high hair... Collectively they all lean forward, like bamboo in the wind. Their postures may be cruelled by age but their excitement is adolescent. Cackling & wheezing with laughter the elderly hordes squeeze into the waiting vans & shuffle about... ↗

— Tim Latham

#age

Most of us have small, sad places somewhere in our hearts and my father was no exception. Sometimes we let our feelings escape in bursts of anger. Sometimes we make long, dismal faces. My father did neither. He felt deeply but he kept his feelings to himself. Or rather, being a writer, he let them escape in his writing. But even here he disguised them, unable even in fiction to allow himself to take himself too seriously. ↗

— Christopher Milne

#anger

And why should any man who writes, even if he writes things immortal, nurse anger at the world's neglect? Who asked him to publish? Who promised him a hearing? Who has broken faith with him? Your poem, your novel, who bargained with you for it? ↗

— George R. Gissing

#anger