Writer Life Quotes

“By seeing how small the world is, I realize how capable I am. I can conquer anything. Anywhere. Anyone.”
― Tawny Lara

“You write. That's the hard bit that nobody sees.”
― Neil Gaiman

“Negative experiences repeat as long as they remain useful to you.”
― Tawny Lara

“Every book contains a secret – even the writer doesn't always know what it is.”
― Carla H. Krueger

“This conversation with myself has an overwhelming aroma of narcissism.”
― Tawny Lara

“We were in Julie’s room one night, my eldest daughter and I, maybe a decade ago now. I wanted to show her how the canvas painting she had carefully labored over for her little sister's Christmas gift was framed and hung on the wall.

I said, gazing at her masterpiece with no small amount of motherly pride, “Now it looks like a real work of art”.

Bella looked at me quizzically, wondering yet again how her mother could possibly understand so little about the world.

“Mama, every time you make something, or draw something, or paint something, it is already real art. There is no such thing as art that is not real”

And so I said that she was right, and didn’t it look nice, and once again, daughter became guru and mother became willing student.

Which is, I sometimes think, the way it was meant to be.

~~~~~

art is always real.
all of it.
even the stuff you don’t understand.
even the stuff you don’t like.
even the stuff that you made that you would be embarrassed to show your best friend

that photo that you took when you first got your DSLR, when you captured her spirit perfectly but the focus landed on her shoulder?

still art.

the painting you did last year the first time you picked up a brush, the one your mentor critiqued to death?

it’s art.

the story you are holding in your heart and so desperately want to tell the world?

definitely art.

the scarf you knit for your son with the funky messed up rows?

art. art. art.

the poem scrawled on your dry cleaning receipt at the red light.

the dress you want to sew.

the song you want to sing.

the clay you’ve not yet molded.

everything you have made

or will one day make

or imagine making in your wildest dreams.

it’s all real, every last bit.
because there is no such thing
as art that is not real.”
― Jeanette LeBlanc

“I write, therefore I am.”
― M.V. Ellis

“Write the words on your heart.”
― Lailah Gifty Akita, Pearls of Wisdom: Great mind

“As a writer, self-doubt is useless. Get rid of it, rip it out like a weed and compost it.”
― Julie Rodelli

“Being a writer means helping others through your experiences.

It is giving the reader the chance to take in something new, or something they may wish to brave.

It is a loving and hostile touch, a patient and eager ghost, and above all... a test of time.”
― H.S. Crow

“When the sullen evening arrived,the sun drowned down the distant horizon with a yellow banded light,diffused with the unsettled,dismal clouds,flown above the blue-deep Ocean that queerly stretched.”
― Nithin Purple, Venus and Crepuscule

“The story must strike a nerve—in me. My heart should start pounding when I hear the first line in my head. I start trembling at the risk.”
― Susan Sontag, As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks, 1964-1980

“… I am at best an ‘arranger’ of sorts. Someone who gets lucky at times in arranging those meaningless letters in a sensible pattern; letters that have in them the power of endless possibilities. End of it, despite my best efforts, some of my writings may still remain as disjointed and incoherent as they are on a QWERTY keyboard. And that to me is the rationale for the name of this blog: Worthless Whispers. To sum up, I am like the curious kid who runs his tender fingers on the melodiously mysterious piano, unwittingly hitting the right notes, alternating between music and noise, as if his fingers are guided by the will of the invisible.”
― Rasal, I Killed the Golden Goose : A COLLECTION OF THOUGHTS, THOUGHTLESSNESS, SILENCES, POEMS & SOME ‘SHOT’ STORIES

“ou feel like the man who woke up with an uncommon, if not melodious, voice in the land of the deaf. There is no one to hear you. Even if they wanted, they could not. You start wondering if this really is a meaningless blessing, or a meaningful curse. For, even while we can pretend to write for ourselves in large part, we also wish to be read by the world. And that world hates to read.
A certain Kafka had to die before he was read.
An uncertain Nietzsche had to pay to be published.
An honest Bukowski remained hated for the good part of his life.
A frustrated Kaczynski had to blow up people and buildings in the US for his thoughts to get published.
Our own Amish was rejected more times than there ever will be sequels to his books.

Why should someone like you and I even attempt writing then? I do not know, even now. Sometimes it helps not to know all the answers. We can skip some questions. Kill a few, and move on.”
― Rasal, I Killed the Golden Goose : A COLLECTION OF THOUGHTS, THOUGHTLESSNESS, SILENCES, POEMS & SOME ‘SHOT’ STORIES