Quotes About Writing

She gave her a reason to write her own words, to see that words had also brought her to life. Don't punish yourself, she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.

I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right. - Liesel Meminger

As it turned out, Ilsa Hermann not only gave Liesel Meminger a book that day. She also gave her a reason to spend time in the basement, her favorite place, first with Papa, then Max. She gave her a reason to write her own words, to see that words had also brought her to life. Don't punish yourself, she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.

For a moment, I debated whether I should tell someone about the words I'd started writing down, but I couldn't. In a way, I felt ashamed, even though my writing was the one thing that whispered okayness in my ear. I didn't speak it, to anyone.

There was an itchy lung for a last cigarette and an immense, magnetic pull toward the basement, for the girl who was his daughter and was writing a book down there he hoped to read one day. Liesel. His soul whispered it as I carried him. But there was no Liesel in that house. Not for me, anyway.

Por encima de todo, la ladrona de libros ansiaba volver al sótano a escribir o leer su historia una vez más. Ahora que lo pienso, sin duda se le veía en la cara. Se moría de ganas de reencontrar esa seguridad, ese hogar, pero era incapaz de moverse. Además, el sótano ya no existía. Era parte del paisaje desvastado.

They were virtuosos of alliteration and didn't know it.

Very quickly, very suddenly, words fell through my mind. They landed on the floor of my thoughts, an in there, down there, I started to pick the words up. They were excerpts of truth gathered from inside me. Even in the night, in bed, they woke me. They painted themselves onto the ceiling. They burned themselves onto the sheets of memory laid out in my mind. When I woke up the next day, I wrote the words down , on a torn-up piece of paper. And to me, the world changed color that morning.

I just want to write someone's favorite book.

Words are so heavy, she thought, but as the night wore on, she was able to complete eleven pages

I have loved words, I have hated them, and I hope I have used them well.

Don't punish yourself," she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.

You'll have days of complete lack of faith in your abilities. But you have to keep coming back. That's when you know you're a writer – when you take the failures and appear at the desk again, over and over again.

Tenía lo que llamaba un pequeño surtido de herramientas: Un libro pintado. Un puñado de lápices. Una cabeza llena de ideas. Como si fueran piezas de un puzzle, empezó a encajarlas.

Cuando empezó a escribir su historia se preguntó por el momento exacto en que los libros y las palabras no sólo comenzaron a tener algún significado, sino que lo significaban todo

How do you give someone a piece of sky? Memorize it. Then write it down for him.

really did the research in phases, before, during, and after I'd finished the manuscript. It wasn't until the end of the writing that I went to Munich to check all of my facts, especially little things, like the seasonal habits of apple trees! (Liesel and Rudy's apple-stealing needed to occur in the right month.) I

If someone wanted to be a runner, you don't tell them to think about running, you tell them to run. And the same simple idea applies to writing, I hope.

THE BOOK THIEF—LAST LINE I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.

Very quickly, very suddenly, words fell through my mind. They landed on the floor of my thoughts, and in there, down there, I started to pick the words up. They were excerpts of truth gather from inside me. Even in the night, in bed, they woke me. They painted themselves onto the ceiling. They burned themselves onto the sheets of memory laid out in my mind. When I woke up the next day, I wrote the words down, on a torn-up piece of paper. And to me, the world changed color that morning.

I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right. Outside

Every night, Liesel made her way down to the basement. She kept the book with her at all times. For hours, she wrote, attempting each night to complete ten pages of her life. There was so much to consider, so many things in danger of being left out. Just be patient, she told herself, and with the mounting pages, the strength of her writing fist grew.

Her papa stood and called her half a woman. Max was writing The Word Shaker in the corner. Rudy was naked by the door.

A typewriter is a means of transcribing thought, not expressing it.