Quotes About Creativity

i believe [images] are the soul's immune system and transit system.

painted three quadrants

Recognizing that the movie business was the entertainment business that wasn't moving fast enough to fill my creative and financial coffers was an impetus to grow, and that has taken me and so many of my colleagues into a larger world.

Mabel likened Lavinia's hand to a demented spider who has fallen into an inkwell.

America has not always been kind to its artists and scholars. Somehow the scientists always seem to get the penthouse while the arts and humanities get the basement.

There are so many great stories that happen in real life there's really no need to think them up at all. I always tell children I have got idea antennae flapping around waiting to grab ideas as they fly past.

Silly language was very much a part of our lives so stringing together nice sentences and being conscious of interesting words were the sorts of things I enjoyed as a child.

That bedrock faith that I could write was what blinded me to attempts to discourage me.

Ideas aren't magical; the only tricky part is holding on to one long enough to get it written down.

For me, writing a short story is much, much harder than writing a novel.

It's too easy to believe in our own importance when we're surrounded by our own creations all day.

I pick up my knitting and wind the yarn around my fingers so I can finish the row. The needles whisper softly as they slide against each other, as if telling secrets.

If I could communicate only by words on a page, how much more satisfactory I would be!

Cool isn't for sale at the bondage store. You make it up yourself, pull it outta your asshole, your own unique brand that starts when you're born, and when you die, it's gone.

I," I'll type. And that will be enough. Then there are the other days, when nothing is enough. The poem grins. It grins because it knows it is a terrible poem. It grins in embarrassment. It grins in pity. It grins in superiority. I may be a terrible poem, it grins, but at least I have one comfort. At least I'm not a terrible poet. At least I'm not the guy who sat in front of a typewriter for two hours coming up with the likes of me.

And thank you for not putting it in your book. And fuck you for not putting it in your book.

Then there are the other days, when nothing is enough. The poem grins. It grins because it knows it is a terrible poem. It grins in embarrassment. It grins in pity. It grins in superiority. I may be a terrible poem, it grins, but at least I have one comfort. At least I'm not a terrible *poet*. At least I'm not the guy who sat in front of a typewriter for two hours coming up with the likes of *me*.

I think Andrew Stanton is such an amazing, creative mind.

GREAT THINGS sometimes come from rewriting under pressure.

On a lazy Saturday morning when you're lying in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, there is a space where fantasy and reality become one. Are you awake, or are you dreaming? You see people and things; some are familiar; some are strange. You talk, you feel, but you move without walking; you fly without wings. Your mind and your body exist, but on separate planes. Time stands still. For me, this is the feeling I have when ideas come.

It still comes as a shock to realize that I don't write about what I know, but in order to find out what I know. —PATRICIA HAMPL If

Vanessa's mother worked as a costume designer for the movies. She wore clothes before anyone even knew they were in style. That was her job. She had to be a year or two ahead of everyone else. Sometimes it embarrassed Vanessa to have a mother so overly trendy. But Catty loved to go over to their house and try on her mother's designs.

You'll look like a scary calavera now," Catty assured the young girl as she leaned back to admire the skeleton skull she had made on her face. "Who's next?" Catty asked and pulled out another paintbrush. Four hands shot up, but one little girl eased into the chair in front of Catty before she had a chance to choose. "My turn," she said. Catty smiled and began smudging white over the girl's rosy cheeks.

Jimena stopped in front of a locker near a floor-length mirror. "This one was Catty's," she said softly. A watercolor painting of the full moon rising over an ocean was taped to the front. A beautiful woman hovered behind the moon, her purple robe billowing into the starry sky behind her. The image was haunting. "Did she do the painting?" Tianna asked. "It's really pretty." Jimena nodded. "She was a good artist.