Writer Quotes - Page 12

Fresh, solid ideas feel like gifts to writers, therefore every morning is Christmas.

Don't put down too many roots in terms of a domicile. I have lived in four countries and I think my life as a writer and our family's life have been enriched by this. I think a writer has to experience new environments. There is that adage: No man can really succeed if he doesn't move away from where he was born. I believe it is particularly true for the writer.

WHEN IT MATTERS THE MOST....DON'T PLEAD THE 5TH WHEN YOU'VE BEEN TESTIFYING ALL DAY!SPEAK UP!

I have the heart of an artist and the soul of a writer.

For some strange reason I get some of my brightest ideas on the toilet seat, with my clothes on.

As I am a work in progress, you shall see me more or less? Don't shake me out if I digress. As of me less, from me more of my work, I guess.

The fear of loving a dog, is knowing one day they’ll be gone and you could never find eyes that express all that you feel.

Pull back the curtain and jump down the rabbit hole.

Limit not to only five, when the divine gifts the supreme sixth; the sense of dance

He who writes is the martyr, seen through the eyes of the unassuming doll.

I doubt I was much of a storyteller, but I would have put that smile in my book. On page 104, right next to the image of the Ward. I would have written it on my heart. I would have proofread it a thousand times under a thousand moons until a thousand tears thoroughly rationalized what it meant to me. Each time for when I’d met the darkness, and then succumbed. The smile read “you can’t break me’”—bold and in italics.

I'm being pulled under - father and farther from the surface. My lungs continue to scream for air. Panic is building inside me, threatening to combust. I can't break free.Help! I can't break free!I open my mouth to scream.

If you didn't earn something, it's not worth flaunting.

She was a beautiful dreamer. The kind of girl, who kept her head in the clouds, loved above the stars and left regret beneath the earth she walked on.

Writing is a sickness only cured by writing.

We love our partners for who they are, not for who they are not.

She wildly burned for the one she loved and he stood there watching, hoping he too would catch a blaze from the violence stirring in her heart.

You want to be a writer, don't know how or when? Find a quiet place, use a humble pen.

If you have the chance to achieve, do it. Life is about taking a chance on something incredible.

Fanscination is what keeps a writer going. To be able to write, a writer has to be fascinated about a particular something that becomes the idea of the story

The trouble with a baby, for writists, is that they take away your useful melancholy, even the energy to invent some.

I make you see things that aren't really there and you believe every word

We see and tell about the myriad truths of how the universe is and might be. That's what we writers DO.

The existence of the writer is an argument against the existence of the soul, for the soul has obviously taken flight from the real ego, but not improved itself, only become a writer.

technology murdered childhood.

Almost every single thing you hope publication will do for you is a fantasy, a hologram--it's the eagle on your credit card that only seems to soar.

Sometimes I create a character from a scrap - a mere mention that has been left behind.

About my interests: I don’t know if I have any, unless the morbid desire to own a sixteen-millimeter camera and make experimental movies can be so classified. Otherwise, I love to eat and drink – it’s my melancholy conviction that I’ve scarcely ever had enough to eat (this is because it’s impossible to eat enough if you’re worried about the next meal) – and I love to argue with people who do not disagree with me too profoundly, and I love to laugh. I do not like bohemia, or bohemians, I do not like people whose principal aim is pleasure, and I do not like people who are earnest about anything. I don’t like people who like me because I’m a Negro; neither do I like people who find in the same accident grounds for contempt. I love America more than any other country in the world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually. I think all theories are suspect, that the finest principles may have to be modified, or may even be pulverized by the demands of life, and that one must find, therefore, one’s own moral center and move through the world hoping that this center will guide one aright. I consider that I have many responsibilities, but none greater than this: to last, as Hemingway says, and get my work done.

Magic : when you create something from the materials around you to astound and make the audience say "Wow." Magic happens on mundane days. It happens when you least expect it. It brings a spark to our drab and monotonous days.

When I am working on a book or a story I write every morning as soon after first light as possible. There is no one to disturb you and it is cool or cold and you come to your work and warm as you write. You read what you have written and, as you always stop when you know what is going to happen next, you go on from there. You write until you come to a place where you still have your juice and know what will happen next and you stop and try to live through until the next day when you hit it again. You have started at six in the morning, say, and may go on until noon or be through before that. When you stop you are as empty, and at the same time never empty but filling, as when you have made love to someone you love. Nothing can hurt you, nothing can happen, nothing means anything until the next day when you do it again. It is the wait until the next day that is hard to get through.

Artist must have an all-or-nothing attitide. Otherwise they will bite his head off and there will be no artist.

What’s it like being a writer? Mostly it’s like being a child surrounded by adults. My friends have grown-up careers. They balance spreadsheets, analyze data, negotiate deals. They build things, heal patients, teach children. Meanwhile, I’m over here saying “Let’s pretend.

Be yourself. The world worships the original.

I write to create a sky where the moon can touch the sun and not get burned.

To be a Russian writer at the end of the nineteenth century must have meant bearing an inescapably bitter fate. The more they tried to escape from Russia, the more deeply Russia swallowed them.

I will not stop singingthe Muses who set me dancing.

Every job from the heart is, ultimately, of equal value. The nurse injects the syringe; the writer slides the pen; the farmer plows the dirt; the comedian draws the laughter. Monetary income is the perfect deceiver of a man's true worth.

I'd be somewhat of a lousy writer if I didn't know what to say.

Could a writer understand how her book had saved someone long ago, when the world was a fragile, scary place and the people she loved weren't in it anymore? Could a writer understand that her book had mattered more than anything?

A POCKET-SIZED GIRLHe keeps me in his pocket for a rainy day; he swears I'm not an object as he yo-yo's me away.A friend is what we'll call it,but my friend, he does not know,each time it rains I love him— so to his pocket, I must go.He thinks he's being clever,but I am not a fool;his love ain't worth a penny,so to my heart I must be cruel.

I hate being a writer. i tend to stick my emotions in things that cannot reciprocate. I've become a whore for my craft.

the whole point of literature, I think, is that it’s the best technology we have for communicating what another person’s life feels like from the inside.

I left the bankbecause they wouldn’t deposit my cheque of poems.So I went to the store,but they didn’t acceptmy currency of words.So I boxed all my storiesand took them to charity.But they refused my donation and asked me to give blood instead.I opened the notebooks and made them look, 'What do you think I wrote these in?

The life of a writer is directed by a mad impulsive muse, that can tell them to cancel all their storyline: a creative divergent devil.

The high road of grace will get you somewhere a whole lot faster then the freeway of spite.

These poems are cupsthat I pour my life into.Here, Drink!

That night I didn’t say anything. I just watched you leave and in the end, I just stayed sleeping awake. Somewhere between a sweet dream and a beautiful nightmare, hoping one day you’d return to rid me of the demons you left behind.

Like dandelions they flew across the expanse Of desert calm without advance They filtered through the stilled “become” Returning to the land they knew. They knew no more than where they flew. And so they gathered, one and all, And scattered it throughout their path. Only golden-shafted majesty could still their might. And so they flew onward, without a path.

If you can't tell from my rap lyrics already, yes I am a feminist. And when I'm saying "hoe" or "bitch" I am actually referring to men. ...That sounded bad, in someway. But at the end of the day, I'm sick of rappers using "bitches" and "hoes" as terms towards women. Feminists are NOT a hate group. Feminists are not all female. Nor has it got an anti-male agenda. It's about equality! I've had a weird, special bond with women since I was a kid. And it's just a shame really that I'm gay.

Rain's pouring and it's too cold. All people bored and I even accord What to do but spell a tale told: So once upon a time a land in the shore...

There is no vacation for a writer! Every moment of his life is work!

No matter how good it is, your book will not sell itself.

The pen that was once a gift has come to represent all that I hope to achieve.

They want to knowwho I write these poems for.Tell them it's for all loversbecause I don’t see a differencebetween our loveand their love.

Considering I'm a writer, you leave me strangely bereft of words.

Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.

A friend worth knowing tolerates your flaws while a friend worth keeping loves you in spite of them.

Be natural my children. For the writer that is natural has fulfilled all the rules of

Night has settled over Paris.The streets have cleared of the crowds, and the city has been lit up. I set my book down, deciding to go for a walk. The Eiffel Tower is only a few blocks away. Now that there aren't many people out, I can walk there without having to fight my way through mobs of gawking tourists.

I escape disaster by writing a poem with a joke in it:The past, present, and future walk into a bar—it was tense.