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those who favor fire
aetenae's haven.
Anne Enright - On Writing1. The first 12 years are the worst.
2. The way to write a book is to actually write a book. A pen is useful, typing is also good. Keep putting words on the page.
3. Only bad writers think that their work is really good.
4. Description is hard. Remember that all description is an opinion about the world. Find a place to stand.
5. Write whatever way you like. Fiction is made of words on a page; reality is made of something else. It doesn’t matter how “real” your story is, or how “made up”: what matters is its necessity.
6. Try to be accurate about stuff.
7. Imagine that you are dying. If you had a terminal disease would you finish this book? Why not? The thing that annoys this 10-weeks-to-live self is the thing that is wrong with the book. So change it. Stop arguing with yourself. Change it. See? Easy. And no one had to die.
8. You can also do all that with whiskey.
9. Have fun.
10. Remember, if you sit at your desk for 15 or 20 years, every day, not counting weekends, it changes you. It just does. It may not improve your temper, but it fixes something else. It makes you more free.This advice was first published in The Guardian
Anne Enright is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. Her novel The Gathering won the 2007 Man Booker Prize.
(Source: amandaonwriting, via cafeconcanela)
Schubert - “Death and the Maiden” Quartet in D Minor
Tonight while our hearts are aglow
Oh tell me the words, that I’m longing to know
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
(via cafeconcanela)
"We must be our own before we can be another’s."
�
Ralph Waldo Emerson
(via lylaandblu)
(Source: theohpioneer, via lylaandblu)
Sonata for Love’s History
for Terri
Before I could arrive at this moment when the earth
wakes inside you, when the night is still tangled in your hair,
before I could see how the moonlight melts
on your breasts as you lay beside me,
before you opened the hands of your soul,
at this moment that is so sudden, so unexpected,
I can only imagine how the softness of your voice must be
enough to stop the insects for miles, and I begin
to understand how the way you open your eyes
to the morning must be enough to change orbits of planets,
so it must have been necessary for me, if Ive really arrived
at this moment alive, to have lived
a life where only my shadow planted the garden,
only my shadow walked through the market,
fingered the keys nervously, drove the car too fast,
and it must be the same shadow that curls up
in the corner of the room or is hung in the closet
collecting moths, and it must have taken centuries
of bones turning to light, of rivers changing course,
of battles won or lost, of a farmer planting one crop
or another that failed or not, one atom hitting
another atom by chance, and through all this a single
string of time survived volcanoes, lightning strikes,
car wrecks, floods, invasions to lead to this moment
abandoned randomly to us, this singular moment that is
part of time’s litter or maybe its architecture, because now
in this moment which is so wondrous the way
it lies beside you, I either do not exist or the past
has never existed, either my breath is
the breath of stars or I do not breathe as I turn to you,
as you breathe my name, my heart,
as the net of stars dissolves above us, as you wrap
yourself around me like honeysuckle, the moon
turning pale because it is so drained by our love,
so that before this moment, before you lay beneath me,
you must have disguised yourself the way the killdeer
you pointed out diverts intruders to save what it loves,
pretending a broken wing, giving itself over finally
to whatever forces, whatever love, whatever touch,
whatever suffering it needs just to say I am here,
I am always here, stroking the wings of your soul.— richard jackson
(Source: browndresswithwhitedots, via raspberry-pancakes)
(Source: jesusisnotdead, via lavondysss)
(Source: bbbbird)
