Writer Quotes - Page 15

Art lovers ought to be crazy.That's how they see the fun side of everything.

Maybe stories choose how they are told and who tells them.

Some artists benefit less from being interviewed than they do from being left alone.

Mokokoma Mokhonoana

She was in awe of all his work. 'How do you do it?" she asked.He smiled and said, 'By loving you.

Because at nightwhen others are sleeping, I drown myself in poetry.

We are all born as storytellers. Our inner voice tells the first story we ever hear.

These poems are cupsthat I pour my life into.Here, Drink!

This mind is continuous and ever taxing, Sleep is an endeavoring luxury for the carnivorous mind

It is a dangerous thing to substitute reading or writing for living. Live first, then write.

There is no revelation in my words. I am merely stating what others have forgotten to write down.

I take in all the colorful locks that line the bridge. Each one told a story. Each lock represented a relationship that was once special, whether it ended or turned into true happiness. The locks represented a past, present, and a possible future.

When we step onto the bridge, Nathan turns and spreads his arms out wide. ‘Welcome to Pont des Arts, a.k.a. The Lock Bridge.

The boy took my sketchbook.

I head in the direction of the Eiffel Tower when I exit the alley, relieved to be out of the dark.

He smirks, shaking his head and letting his eyes wander. I watch him carefully, wondering what I can say to get him to leave. “I’m not leaving until you answer some questions. Plus, I’m holding your sketchbook hostage, so you might want to cooperate.” I raise an eyebrow at him. I guess there isn’t much I can say. “This isn’t a hostage negotiation.” He chuckles half-heartedly as his eyes take me in, almost sizing me up. “I guess I should introduce myself.” He holds a hand out for me to shake. “I’m Nathan.” I stare at his hand for a moment. “Taylor,” I reply, meeting his eyes again without taking his hand. He lets his hand fall back to his side. “At least I got you to say something non-hostile.” “I haven’t been hostile,” I object. His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, haven’t you?” “Why don’t you leave me alone?” I snap. “Leave and don’t come back.” I move passed him, heading for my apartment. He can’t follow and annoy me if I lock the door. “Where are you going?” he demands. I look back over my shoulder and roll my eyes at him, indicating the answer should be obvious: anywhere he isn’t. Once inside, I slam the door behind me. “That was totally not hostile!” he calls after me, sarcastically. I quickly head for my bedroom door, slamming it, too.

Every gesture and every look he gives me takes me by surprise and causes my heart to stutter.

I freeze, my feet suddenly glued to the floor. It takes me a minute to gather the courage to turn around, but when I do, I immediately wish I hadn't. The boy is standing in the doorway at the end of the hall.Why is he here again? I barely allow myself time to ask the question before I move. Panicked, I turn and run back downstairs as fast as I can."Hey! Wait!" he calls after me.I don't stop.

I grab the nearest lamppost when my knees threaten to give out, panting for breath as the words rip through me

Poetry isn’t an island, it is the bridge. Poetry isn’t a ship, it is the lifeboat. Poetry isn’t swimming. Poetry is water.

You will never know all there is to know. You will learn until your final days. Then you will inspire someone else. This is what an artist does.

He stares at me—taking me in—with his lips slightly parted. I struggle to hold myself in place as we gawk at each other. I want so desperately to run, but something is holding me back, keeping me in place.

We are told that in translation there is no such thing as equivalence. Many times the translator reaches a fork in the translating road where they must make a choice in the interpretation of a word. And each time they make one of these choices, they are taken further from the truth. But what we aren’t told is that this isn’t a shortcoming of translation; it’s a shortcoming of language itself. As soon as we try to put reality into words, we limit it. Words are not reality, they are the cause of reality, and thus reality is always more. Writers aren't alchemists who transmute words into the aurous essence of the human experience. No, they are glassmakers. They create a work of art that enables us to see inside to help us understand. And if they are really good, we can see our own reflections staring back at us.

One of his hands move away from my face to flatten against my back, pulling me closer to him as he deepens the kiss. He parts my lips under his as my mind seems to sign quietly in content. I kiss him back as fiercely as he kisses me, unable to control the infatuation that rushes through me - feeling almost like fireworks. Not so careful anymore.Little shivers of urgency shoot through me. I push off the window, pressing closer to him. The rush of sensation that is coursing through me feels like I've drunk a gallon of coffee. It feels like an electric buzz is flooding between us.

Night has settled over Paris.The streets have cleared of the crowds, and the city has been lit up. I set my book down, deciding to go for a walk. The Eiffel Tower is only a few blocks away. Now that there aren't many people out, I can walk there without having to fight my way through mobs of gawking tourists.

He drinks his coffee tentatively, glancing at me every few seconds, watching me. Every time he glances in my direction, I quickly turn away though he obviously knows I'm watching him. I know he's wondering why I'm staring at him, but he doesn't ask.I finally take a sip of coffee, set the mug back on the table, and voice what's on my mind, "I want to draw you.

The hours tick by as I lie in bed.Memories keep surfacing, tormenting me into unbelievable sadness. I can't bring myself to move. I can't fight the memories that keep filling my thoughts. I stay curled in the fetal position as each memory plays out. I can't stop them from coming. I can't make them go away. Nothing can distract me. I can't block the memories, so they continue to come.

I'm being pulled under - father and farther from the surface. My lungs continue to scream for air. Panic is building inside me, threatening to combust. I can't break free.Help! I can't break free!I open my mouth to scream.

I write things down because my thoughts get too heavy in my head and it hurts my neck.

They always tell you to do what you love. But they forget to add that writing doesn't pay by the hour.

I could never be a Communist. I could never be regimented. I could never be told what to write.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Be natural my children. For the writer that is natural has fulfilled all the rules of

Charles Dickens

You can't always control what happens to you but you can master how you react to it.

A leader does not only discover what people can do better. He teaches, guides and mentor them to do it exceptionally well. When a seed comes into contact with a leader, fruits are produced.

Israelmore Ayivor

If you're going to have the tortured soul of an artist, then you might as well create some art while you're at it.

I have the heart of an artist and the soul of a writer.

It's easier said than done but when you feel yourself out of balance within, stop in that present moment and catch your breathe. Remind yourself of 5 things, that help you feel most alive and re-centre your own energy frequency so you can continue living out of your intentions not the world's distractions.

Her words are her wings. She's flying.

The pages afforded glimpses into my soul where I'd hidden it, behind masks of paper and ink.

Rachel L. Schade

There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique.  And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost.  The world will not have it.  It is not your business to determine how good it is, nor how valuable it is, nor how it compares with other expressions.  It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open.  You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work.  You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you.  Keep the channel open.

A writer is dear and necessary for us only in the measure of which he reveals to us the inner workings of his very soul.

What broke your heart so badThat you had to close every door, That you say you have a dark soulAnd can't utter the word 'love' anymore?

There is strength in kindness.

A Starry Eyed April

Chaos is nothing more than beauty about to dance.

Think not of the fragility of life, but of the power of books, when mere words have the ability to change our lives simply by being next to each other.

Think not of the fragility of life, but of the power of books, when mere words can change our lives simply by being next to each other.

I write our names on the page.What of it, if the paper will be burned?I write our names in the sand.What of it, if the shore will be washed by waves?I write our names on trees that will be cutand benches that will be painted,but what of it?I will keep on writing our namesbecause in this world of ephemera, You and I are the only constant.

This poem was meant to be unwritten. But I am writing it now and have thereby changed destiny.

Until I find a home in a human, art has my heart.

When a writer's heart is filled with the music of her soul, her words sing.

Aren't you tired from all that smiling that you do at the camera? Relax and come with me to the mountains. There is more to life than the cameras!

A writer of any merit does not worry about being accepted everywhere. He must write to inspire, to change for the better or to challenge the status quo!

I don't settle down. I don't follow any path.Because I am the wanderer and wandering is my destiny!

I wake up in strange beds and in unknown rooms. I wander in dark alleys and crooked roads. Some days I don't even see the sun. Some nights the moon hides from me. I am the wanderer and wandering is my destiny!

What do you do when you cannot see any light? Where do you go when you cannot see any path? So I became the wanderer and wandering became my destiny!

If typos are God's way of keeping a writer humble, plot holes certainly keeps one on their knees.

E.A. Bucchianeri

To increase the chances of a writer trying to kill themselves, cut off their hands.

Mokokoma Mokhonoana

Cowardice is the most terrible of vices.

Mikhail Bulgakov

I didn't want to sing.I wanted to be music.

A fleeting second on someone's news feed,No dearth of meanings for those who read,Not my stories but 'tis what I think,I say I don't write poems, I just write dreams.

The point of dreams was never to be the affordable option, it was the one everyone else saw as a mistake and every creative person saw as an opportunity.

Anastasia Bolinder

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