Dear Readers, I’m a slacker. I can’t keep up with daily stories anymore. So I’m not going to promise them. Quality over quantity, right? I will make an effort to update a few times a week, but no promises. In the meantime, what inspires you to keep writing?
Imaginary Overheard Conversation
“You don’t have to die. I’ll just shrink you down and keep you in my pocket. How about that?”
A novel is a commodity that fulfills a certain need; people need to buy...– John Dos Passos (via libraryland)
Books are the carriers of civilization … They are companions, teachers,...– Barbara W. Tuchman (1912-1989)
No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.– Robert Frost (via writedreamexplorecreate)
Her face was broken rearranged in a mass of blobs and bits. It wasn’t her fault. An accident. It was human failure. A moment of weakness hurt this beautiful girl and she is still beautiful. She’s not weak. She walks right past the taunts. She is still a human. She has moments of madness, tearing at the flesh, hoping to reveal that beautiful flesh underneath all of the scars. ...
For your born writer, nothing is so healing as the realization that he has come...– Catherine Drinker Bowen (via writedreamexplorecreate)
The moment is lost and I will never hold you again. Tears on the ground won’t bring you back to me. My dearest, Scrumpy, will never eat a sunflower seed again. Amen.
Moments are all we have.
notwritenow: As I write, I sometimes get wrapped up in small moments. I focus on the way a character’s hair looks in the early evening light, or how their breath quickens when they get nervous or scared. As I write, I can’t help but notice that my stories are nothing more than a series of intimate, specific moments, loosely woven together with narration. These moments are what move the plot...
Evelyn wasn’t a normal girl. When all of the other children were outside playing games, she was inside, reading the medical dictionary. Her mother disapproved of her wallflowery ways and banished her to the backyard. “You play now. Be good girl.” But Evelyn didn’t play like the other children. “And who do we have here? Oh, it’s Frederick. How are...
It’s very hard to write about that which is always beautiful and pleasant and...– Paul Bowles (via ilovereadingandwriting)
Perhaps there is a language which is not made of words and everything in the...– (via niveous-, fondoftea) (via clavicola)
I think in pink, but I’ll still kick your ass. I’m not just another girly girl, I’ll change your tire, hook up your stereo and make you a French-inspired dinner. I’ll kiss you goodbye in the morning on the way to work. I turn my nose up at desk jobs preferring to get my hands dirty. You’ll see me under the hood, grease on my hands and sweat on my brow. I’ll come...
I’m not a girl that loves Hello Kitty. I’m not fancy. I’m not petite. I’m not Asian. I’m not pink and covered in sparkles. I look up to the moon and I see a girl that is pure black. My soul is open, but my heart is decayed. I’m rotten. I’m still flesh and bone, but I love thunderstorms and bruises. I fell in love with the stars and they opened their arms....
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When...– William Wordsworth (via excessivebookshelf)
The ground was moist with dew, Adam knelt down, searching for seeds. He called them out of the soil. A song that only they could hear. The flowers would rise before his eyes, dancing as they did so, only to shrivel up days later. No matter what he did, he could never change the outcome. But Adam never gave up and until the day he died he watched the flowers wilt.
Books. People have no idea how beautiful books are. How they taste on your...– Rachel Kadish,Tolstoy Lied: A Love Story (via thesearepeopleyouknow)
flapjacksblog2 asked: What is your favorite Cartoon Network show?
Her mind is like a broken puzzle. It’s the box you find at a yard sale. 1001 pieces. LIKE NEW, they claim, but when you get home and open the box and you’re almost at the end, there are only 999. It’s like a Picasso, but it’s not art. It’s not abstract. It’s just damaged and you throw it away. Two days later you regret it. You go dumpster diving, but...
She doesn’t need them anymore. The wind, the earth and the rage. She leaves it all behind and when she’s falling, staring into the sun, wind in her hair, the earth coming up fast, she senses her mistake. The rage never left her. This is what Mother Nature wanted all along.
At night, her husband lied to her. “Oh, sorry, hun, it’s going to be another late night at the office. Can you keep dinner warm in the oven?” In the morning, she lied to him. “Did you poison me?” “Absolutely not! Why would you even think such a thing?”
The animals used to sing to me as a girl, but I’ve forgotten most of the words. It went a little something like “roar-roar-roar screechy-screech and a la-la-la.” I was pretty surprised when I realized they were just singing “I Want to Hold Your Hand.”
Stop the Silence
She never knew when to stop. The days bled one into another and soon her ambition weakened. Words flew about her head and her mind went soft with worry. She couldn’t catch them any longer. Her writing suffered and her fingers shriveled with stress. If it wasn’t for the sun, she would have never regained consciousness. The moon lit up her pale face, but the sun stepped in, tanned her...
She blew her nose and it all disappeared. The lights went out. The streets went silent. The buildings toppled and the ground below collapsed. She fell, tumbling head over heels, sneezing all the way down to the core. Magma met her face and she screamed, seared and sneezing, to her doom.
Under the Weather
“Frederick, is that you?” “Yes, I’m afraid, I’m still around.” “Where have you been?” “The rains came and flooded me out of my home. Then the sun came and nearly turned me into a blister. I wiggled over here to avoid being squashed and now I’m just waiting to succomb from the weather. I’m nearly one big wrinkle now. There’s...
The waves were unsettled on Saturday, upsetting boats and plowing over sand castles. The surf was choppy and soon the beach was deserted. The seagulls and crabs came out to bask in the sunshine. The whales splashed their tails in response to the sea turtles. The starfish musical was just about to begin when the ships arrived. The humans were fighting back, but the sharks had something to say...
Under the Sea
The ocean used to be a peaceful place until Ariel showed up.
I’m looking for answers in the clouds. The contrails don’t leave a clue. The answering machine reads 0, but I wait, crossing my fingers for luck. I believe my sister is out there. Somewhere. It’s me that doesn’t know how to look for her.