Writers Life Quotes - Page 3

You cannot write if you are not on fire

Bangambiki Habyarimana

How do you feel when you read stuff written by dead authors? A visit by a ghost?

Bangambiki Habyarimana

You cannot write if you are not angry

Bangambiki Habyarimana

If you are afraid of the critics you will never write a word

Bangambiki Habyarimana

You never know what you will write until you write it

Bangambiki Habyarimana

Write it as you see in your own perspective, you may be right or wrong but then what, that's how you see it

Bangambiki Habyarimana

You can edit what you write. Why not edit what you say? If it hurts somebody, you can still offer an apology or withdraw your statements

Bangambiki Habyarimana

Able writers let us into their minds and show us how they think and by that open our minds to ourselves

Bangambiki Habyarimana

Sometimes I have a good idea, something I wish I could remember, and instead of writing it down, commit it to my memory only to disappear when I needed it. Write your ideas as they come, if you wait it will be too long and you may not recover it. It may get destroyed as it is to seed to and fro in the ever rushing river of our thoughts

Bangambiki Habyarimana

You say you have nothing to write about? How do you find things to talk about? You can write about those things you like to talk about, that's your area of expertise

Bangambiki Habyarimana

. If you want to write, just write anything that comes into your mind. You will be surprised at how you can force inspiration to stand on your side.

Bangambiki Habyarimana

A writer is never alone, he is always with himself

Bangambiki Habyarimana

We write, not because we claim to know more than others, but perhaps because we want to know more than others. Writers are explorers

Bangambiki Habyarimana

Words disappear in the air, but writing remains. If you want something to be remembered about you, write it down

Bangambiki Habyarimana

I am what I have ever read

Bangambiki Habyarimana

The world would have been a better place if some men had just shut their mouths.

Bangambiki Habyarimana

Writing is like breathing -- it is necessary for my survival.

Michelle C. Hillstrom

I am part of everyone I ever dated on OK Cupid.

Love is the bee that carries the pollen from one heart to another.

Why does everyone think a guy who prefers love to people is missing something in his life?

Having had virtually no contact with the outside world for the last few weeks, Evan had temporarily forgotten the social norms governing shopping conduct or approaching celebrities in public.

Zack Love

Bad feminism seems like the only way I can both embrace myself as a feminist and be myself, and so I write. I chatter away on Twitter about everything that makes me angry and all the small things that bring me joy. I write blog posts about the meals I cook as I try to take better care of myself, and with each new entry, I realize that I'm undestroying myself after years of allowing myself to stay damaged.

My spirit has been around far longer than my soul--I've lived several lifetimes already. And one this novel has been written, I will have lived several more.

That's what we storytellers do. We restore order with imagination. We instill hope again and again and again.

Kelly Marcel & Sue Smith

If you are writing fiction, think like a god. Release all the power of your imagination; create worlds and destroy them at your will, create as many miracles as your story needs

Bangambiki Habyarimana

The joy of writing is the fullness of existence.

Lailah Gifty Akita

I know, not everyone will like what I write, but writing is not about trying to please everybody.

E.A. Bucchianeri

Im happy to sit and be an ear to listen when the world gets wild but Id much prefer to watch the ways your eyes in sparkle in the midst of convincing me why you love the things you do. It gives me hope that someone else out there feels everything with this much depth and has the willingness to create a beautiful life from it.

Being a writer, I take thing seriously (not too seriously). I may be a young writer/self publisher, I do love to write and I want to share my stories to the world. but more importantly, I do take writing seriously.

In order to protect their good names for posterity, many writers never wrote what they thought or the truth as it stood. That's why truth still lies hidden in matters of power, sex and religion. No wonder they chose to do so, many who dared paid with their heads

Bangambiki Habyarimana

God accentuate our mind with exact words to write.

Lailah Gifty Akita

I walk around engrossed in my stories and worlds, and I love losing myself in them!

We write to give strength to the soul of the spirit.

Lailah Gifty Akita

I write amongst the stars, and the canvased paper moon. I paint the fields of green, sprinkling morning dew. I teach the birds to sing, a tweet, a tweet, times two. And when my busy day is done, I dream sweet dreams of you.

N'Zuri Za Austin

Gratitude is the gateway to a positive life.

We encounter truth within.

You heard me cry long before I knew my voice.

A pen name is a nickname.

I’m still lonely and it’s a glorification of something I’m not finished with. I don’t want to be distracted from my work by other people, but the absence of it all distracts me from my work and that’s why I run towards the city, to get a little glimpse of it.

Charlotte Eriksson

The written word is the greatest sacred documentation.

Lailah Gifty Akita

One author said "I write because I want to live a footprint in the sands of history.” It's hard to live a footprint in the sands of history when giants are passing through the same sands unless you are one of the giants

Bangambiki Habyarimana

I used to be afraid about what people might say or think after reading what I had written. I am not afraid anymore, because when I write, I am not trying to prove anything to anyone, I am just expressing myself and my opinions. It’s ok if my opinions are different from those of the reader, each of us can have his own opinions. So writing is like talking, if you are afraid of writing, you may end up being afraid of talking

Bangambiki Habyarimana

I am not a supporter of burning books; but like poison, some books should be kept away from simple minds who can't take in the strong content they provide

Bangambiki Habyarimana

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

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.

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.

The best writing speaks when the heart whispers.

That which is cool is driven by the soul.

My Solo Adventure #1- Bali: Imagination unlocked, escaping a cage drawn by a relentless life. Soul freed, reaching beyond the hidden dimensions of an uncertain universe. Thirst. Hunger. Rebirth. For forever we are greedy.

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