Quotes About Writing

Buddy me decía que estaba leyendo poemas escritos por alguien que también era médico y que había descubierto que había un famoso cuentista ruso, ya muerto, que también había sido médico, así que era posible que los escritores y los médicos congeniaran.

People were made of nothing but dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn't sleep

I want to write because I have the urge to excel in one medium of translation and expression of life. I can't be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living.

Since my woman's world is perceived greatly through the emotions and the senses, I treat it that way in my writing - and am often overweighted with heavy descriptive passages and a kaleidoscope of similes.

Then I knew what the trouble was. I needed experience. How could I write about life when I'd never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die? A girl I knew had just won a prize for a short story about her adventures among the pygmies in Africa. How could I compete with that sort of thing?

I justified the mess I made of life by saying I'd give it order, form, beauty, writing about it;

How clear, how lovely. Now just write the damn thing.

Then I knew what the trouble was - I needed experience. How could I write about life when I'd never had a love affair or a baby or seen anybody die?

And so I could go on, into my thoughts, writing much, trying to find the core, the meaning for myself. Perhaps that would help, to synthesize my ideas into a philosophy for me...

The photographer fiddled with his hot white lights. 'Show us how happy it makes you to write a poem.' I stared through the frieze of rubber-plant leaves in Jay Cee's window to the blue sky beyond. A few stagey puffs were traveling from right to left. I fixed my eyes on the largest cloud, as if, when it passed out of sight, I might have the good luck to pass with it.

People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doc- toring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn't sleep.

Como é que eu poderia escrever sobre a vida se nunca tivera um caso amoroso ou um filho ou vira alguém morrer? Uma garota que eu conhecia havia acabado de ganhar um prêmio por um conto sobre suas aventuras entre os pigmeus na África. Como é que eu podia competir com esse tipo de coisa?

?udia sú totiž vytvorení zvä?ša z prachu a mne neÅ¡lo do hlavy, pre?o by lie?enie vÅ¡etkého toho prachu malo byÃ…Â¥ lepÅ¡ie ako písanie básní, ktoré si tí ?udia zapamätajú a v duchu si ich opakujú, ke? sú neÅ¡Å¥astní alebo chorí, alebo nemôžu spaÃ…Â¥.

Well, after this Racine paper, this Ronsard-purgatory, this Sophocles, I shall write: letters and prose and poetry, toward the end of the week; I must be stoic till then.

Orice lucru în via?? e subiect de scris, dac? ai îndr?zneala s? o faci ÅŸi imaginaÅ£ie s? improvizezi. Cel mai mare duÅŸman al creativit??ii este îndoiala de sine.

Somehow these sluttish nights make me have a violent nunlike passion to write and sequester myself. I shall sequester. I don't want to see anybody because they are not Ted Hughes and I never have been made a fool of by a man.

I haven't had an acceptance since October 1st. And I have piles of poems and stories out. Not to mention my book of poems. Even Ted's letter about winning the contest, with its award details, hasn't come, so even vicarious pleasure is shorn from me. Bills come.

I am writing with a blunt pencil tied on a mile-long stick, at something far off over the horizon line. Will I break through someday? At least if I get 300 pages written by the end of May, I'll have the creaking, gushing skeleton plot of the whole thing.

Then I can write slowly, re-writing each chapter, carefully with a subtle structured style. If I can ever find a subtle structured style.

Only it would help my morale no end to feel it was a good novel.

But will do 5 pages a day until plodding I catch up. Use words as poet uses words. That is it! Gulley Jimson is an artist with words, too – – – or, rather Joyce Cary is. But I must be a word-artist. The

I wish I could have the ability to write down the feelings I have now while I'm still little, because when I grow up I will know how to write, but I will have forgotten what being little feels like.

I felt if I didn't write nobody would accept me as a human being. Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing and love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of experience.

Writing on the side (she says ambitiously.) But to write you have to live, don't you?