August 15, 2013 § 4 Comments
Understanding who she is
is to want to see her again.
The smallest details of our time
are the thoughts that haunt my day. « Read the rest of this entry »
April 7, 2013 § 20 Comments
If you are a writer, or want to be a writer,
if you are an artist, or want to be an artist,
if you are a genius, or want to be a genius…
« Read the rest of this entry »
December 15, 2012 § 12 Comments
I received many emails asking how to create this effect in my posts… « Read the rest of this entry »
January 14, 2012 § 2 Comments
Writers do not have the privilege of sleep. There is always a story coming alive in their heads, constantly composing. Whether they choose it or not.
January 13, 2012 § 1 Comment
“Each one of us is alone in the world. He is shut in a tower of brass, and can communicate with his fellows only by signs, and the signs have no common value, so that their sense is vague and uncertain. We seek pitifully to convey to others the treasures of our heart, but they have not the power to accept them, and so we go lonely, side by side but not together, unable to know our fellows and unknown by them. We are like people living in a country whose language they know so little that, with all manner of beautiful and profound things to say, they are condemned to the banalities of the conversation manual. Their brain is seething with ideas, and they can only tell you that the umbrella of the gardener’s aunt is in the house.”
-W. Somerset Maughaam
January 12, 2012 § 7 Comments
Writers, they don’t say much to your face. They hide behind their pen. They will write you the most wicked and hateful words that non-writers would never dream of speaking.
But us writers……
we can get away with it.
Our tongues can’t compete with the rapid thinking of our brains, our words come out slow and slurred. The pen is our haven. There is a lot of fear buried into that little pen. It holds all of our agony, our torment, our blood and our heaven.
We let ourselves loose on that simple blank piece of paper, and our bodies spill. The terror, the love…embodying our stories page after page. In a sense, the pen was our tongue, it is how we delineate the world.