Quotes About Inspiration

When you can sit down with a plain sheet of paper in front of you and make some notes, and, little by little, you see it take shape and become a concept for a movie or a TV show. That's a real thrill. You watch it go from notes on a paper to a meeting with writers and directors and actors. I can't think of anything that's more exciting.

I'm sort of a pressure writer. If somebody says, "Stan, write something," and I have to have it by tomorrow morning, I'll just sit down and I'll write it. It always seems to come to me. But I'm better doing a rushed job because if it isn't something that's due quickly, I won't work on it until it becomes almost an emergency and then I'll do it.

Jack Kirby to me was far and away the king. I gave him the name King Kirby ... everything he drew was just the way it should be.

My favorite movie star, far and away, was Errol Flynn. I thought that this guy was the greatest because he always played such heroic roles. He was either the sheriff of Dodge City, or he was Robin Hood, or he was Captain Blood. When I would leave the theater, I'd be about 10 years old I guess ... I would imagine I had a little crooked smile on my face the way Errol Flynn did, and an imaginary sword at my side. I'd be looking around for little girls that might be [attacked] by some bullies.

Once long ago in Wisconsin I saw the heavens draped in rich purple auroral clouds fringed and folded in most magnificent forms; but in this glory of light, so pure, so bright, so enthusiastic in motion, there was nothing in the least cloudlike.

How do you bring alive the things you perceive?

Mother Teresa used the analogy of electricity: "The wire is you and me; the current is God," she said. "We have the power to let the current pass through us, use us, and produce the light of the world—Jesus.

Now, writing every day, and being paid for it and encouraged to do it, it was as if, in the midst of the clich?d dark and stormy night, I found the magical inn, its windows golden lit, and Summer was due to start tomorrow. I can only work at one thing well. Deprive me of that, and my "back-up plan," even now, will be the empty, stormy, darkened heath -- where, incidentally, even unpublished, somehow I'll still be writing.

Some writers, of course, simply write, as they feel they are driven to do, by outer/inner inspirations. If, after the work is written and, hopefully, published, others respond -- that is the Champagne. But we, or some of us, don't write for the Champagne. We write because we write.

For me, everyone I write of is real. I have little true say in what they want, what they do or end up as (or in). Their acts appall, enchant, disgust or astound me. Their ends fill me with retributive glee, or break my heart. I can only take credit (if I can even take credit for that) in reporting the scenario. This is not a disclaimer. Just a fact.

I must suppose that reading wonderful writers may, inadvertently, teach an avid reader a great deal -- not only about life and other matters, but about how to write. Therefore doubtless I have benefited from frequent immersions in the glowing genius of others. It would be nice to think so. (I do actually think so). But to improve my skills will never be the prompting force of my reading -- that's just literary lust.

I hardly ever work from a synopsis -- I find they act like chains.

I met Jesse Owens once. He was a remarkable individual, and I have tremendous respect for what he did in the Olympics under the circumstances.

When I was appointed a member of the Twelve, I said from this pulpit that I would rather have my children enjoy the companionship of the Holy Ghost than any other person or individual in the world; and I feel the same today, for them and for me, and for all of you.

The blackest murder is the killing of the Soul's aspirations!

For a love in the sky, you must well understand, Keeps up an unending desire, And a moment down here is eternity there To the lover who seeks to aspire.

Not in tears should we pray, But in hope, smiling bright, When the glory of day Has forgotten the night!

The Royal Road to Knowledge, all may win, Who seek the source of Life in everything.

The fine art of Life is to make Another Soul vibrate with a song of joy.

Many a night I woke to the murmer of paper and knew (Dad) was up, sitting in the kitchen with frayed King James - oh, but he worked that book; he held to it like a rope ladder.

Is there a single person on whom I can press belief? No sir. All I can do is say, Here's how it went. Here's what I saw. I've been there and am going back. Make of it what you will.

Hope is like yeast, you know, rising under warmth.

Great woman belong to history and to self sacrifice.

Colors are the smiles of nature.