Quotes About Writing

One of the things I hear a lot from people is how they found my book, or how they've shared it with other people. This always warms my bitter old heart, not just because I like selling more books, (though I do) but because reccomending a book to a friend is one of the most sincere forms of flattery there is. If you read someone I wrote and like it enough to tell a friend, that means I've done something right. That means more to me than any sort of professional review….

He writes like he´s afraid someone might actually understand him.

So," Chronicler said. "Subjunctive mood." "At best," Kvothe said, "it is a pointless thing. It needlessly complicates the language. It offends me.

When all the world was palimpsest, it was a perfect palindrome.

Cuando el mundo entero se convertía en un palimpsesto, él se convertía en un palíndromo perfecto.

Next came, as near as I could tell, the journal of a madman. While it sounds interesting, it was really only a headache pressed between covers.

We all good word do. We make you do word good too!" - Writing Excuses

Conozco a uno que una vez tuvo que abrirse una vena para escribirle una nota a su amada. Dramático, es cierto. Simbólico, también. Pero ademas, doloroso, poco higiénico y considerablemente macabro. Desde entonces siempre lleva consigo pluma y tinta.

Teccam writes of secrets, calling them painful treasures of the mind (...) A secret, Teccam explains, is true knowledge actively concealed.

He had learned to extend the journey from his mental notion of a scent to the finished perfume by way of writing down the formula.

Probably induced by the asthma, I started reading and writing early on, my literary efforts from the age of about nine running chiefly to poetry and plays.

Even if the abuse happened years ago, writing about it and telling someone about it can make all the difference to how you feel inside. I can assure you that telling will help you feel better. It is never to late to tell your story and begin to heal your wounds. Find the right person to trust and tell.

Freedom is...the right to write the wrong words.

I wish I could just project everything on the paper,

Why do we write? A chorus erupts. Because we cannot simply live.

I wrote to give myself something to read.

And then I walked out, straight through the twilight, treading the beaten earth. There were no dust clouds, no signs of anyone, but I paid no mind. I was my own lucky hand of solitaire. The desert landscape unchanging: a long, unwinding scroll that I would one day amuse myself by filling. I'm going to remember everything and then I'm going to write it all down. An aria to a coat. A requiem for a café. That's what I was thinking, in my dream, looking down at my hands.

Somehow I started introducing writing into my drawings, and after a time, the language took over and I started getting very involved with the handwriting and then the look of the handwriting.

Thank you, I said. I have lived in my own book. One I never planned to write, recording time backwards and forwards.

The act of writing in real time in order to deflect, escape, or slow it down is obviously futile yet not entirely fruitless.

There are stacks of notebooks that speak of years of aborted efforts, deflated euphoria, a relentless pacing of the boards. We must write, engaging in a myriad of struggles, as if breaking in a willful foal. We must write, but not without consistent effort and a measure of sacrifice: to channel the future, to revisit childhood, and to rein in the follies and horrors of the imagination for a pulsating race of readers.

Murakami is not here anyway, I thought. He is most likely somewhere else, sealed in a space capsule in the center of a field of lavender, laboring over words.

What a drug this little book is; to imbibe it is to find oneself presuming his process. I read and feel that same compulsion; the desire to possess what he has written, which can only be subdued by writing something myself. It is not mere envy but a delusional quickening in the blood.

Varför skriver vi? En kör av röster väller fram. För att vi inte bara kan leva.