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Posts tagged writing.
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10.22.12 85
Zoom The literary love of my life:Oscar Wilde’s tombstone in Père Lachaise Cemetery.
Happy belated Birthday, Mr. Wilde.

The literary love of my life:
Oscar Wilde’s tombstone in Père Lachaise Cemetery.

Happy belated Birthday, Mr. Wilde.

10.22.12 6
Zoom I sometimes have to fight the urge to do this when reading friends’ Facebook posts.

I sometimes have to fight the urge to do this when reading friends’ Facebook posts.

10.20.12 6
Zoom — C.S. Lewis

— C.S. Lewis

09.18.12 1581
If you haven’t got an idea, start a story anyway. You can always throw it away, and maybe by the time you get to the fourth page you will have an idea, and you’ll only have to throw away the first three pages.

— William Campbell Gault

09.16.12 178
Zoom Essentially stream-of-consciousness writing. Even if I only have to fight the impulse for ten minutes, it’s still like an all-out war in my head; I’m exhausted afterward.
And it’s been three and a half years even, since the last time. Sometimes I wonder if it will ever go away completely.

Essentially stream-of-consciousness writing. Even if I only have to fight the impulse for ten minutes, it’s still like an all-out war in my head; I’m exhausted afterward.

And it’s been three and a half years even, since the last time. Sometimes I wonder if it will ever go away completely.

09.10.12 4
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.

Charles Bukowski

09.05.12 3540
Writing is hard for every last one of us… Coal mining is harder. Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. They simply dig. You need to do the same, dear sweet arrogant beautiful crazy talented tortured rising star glowbug. That you’re so bound up about writing tells me that writing is what you’re here to do. And when people are here to do that they almost always tell us something we need to hear. I want to know what you have inside you. I want to see the contours of your second beating heart. So write, Elissa Bassist. Not like a girl. Not like a boy. Write like a motherfucker. Yours, Sugar.

— Sugar for The Rumpus, Dear Sugar: Write Like a Motherfucker (via fleurishes)

04.28.12 271
‎If I read our story backwards, it’s about how I un-broke your heart, and then we were happy until one day, you forgot about me forever.

— The Tiny Book of Tiny Stories

04.17.12 24
If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy.

— Dorothy Parker

04.05.12 12
This, Our Love..

I.
Our kiss is a secret handshake, a password.
We love like spies, like bruised prize fighters,

Like children building tree houses.
Our love is serious business.

One look from you and my spine reincarnates as kite string.

When I hesitate to hold your hand,
it is because to know is to be responsible for knowing.

II.
There is no clean way to enter
the heavy machinery of the heart.

Just jagged cutthroat questions.
Just the glitter and blood production.

III.
The truth is this:
My love for you is the only empire
I will ever build.

When it falls,
as all empires do,
my career in empire building will be over.

I will retreat to an island.
I will dabble in the vacation-hut industry.
I will skulk about the private libraries and public parks.

I will fold the clean clothes.
I will wash the dishes.
I will never again dream of having the whole world.

—Mindy Nettifee, “This is the Nonsense of Love”

(via fleurishes)

02.21.12 1165
res·o·nate

—verb

I love certain words, and how when they’re strung together exactly right, they can worm their way inside of you, and pull at certain parts of you. Make you ache. Make you cry. Make you love. Make you rage. Sometimes for reasons that you can’t even find; I love the way that certain words can elicit certain reactions, and sometimes you don’t even know why.

02.21.12 2
Revenger’s Tragedy


You don’t return my calls. In a month of missing days
Everything thwarts me, even the curls of my hair freeze;

My skin sheds, leaving flakes on my wool sweater. We are
    erratic
Both, changing with the weather, but you think of it

As an astronomical progression. Last year you called me
Your little sunflower. Eleven blizzards later I think of how

To get you: calculating mercury, sighting along
    constellations,
Rehearsing the lines of a paid assassin— not know me, my Lord?

You cannot choose! I bide time,
Hoarse-tongued & blue as poison, the double

Line of my eye gone to slits. I hate like a tooth hurts
At the root. I will startle the bones

From their sockets, they will crack like glass
& catch in your throat. I will dazzle

Your heart from its cage. The lungs will knock & clap
Together in the empty place. The applause will make you rattle.


—Jane Yeh

02.19.12 0