Writing Quotes - Page 92

The Lord showed me by vision and revelation what would happen if we did not stop this practice... all ordinances would be stopped... many men would be made prisoners... I went before the Lord, and I wrote what the Lord told me to write.

Writers can write outside their ethnicity or sex depending how open and vulnerable they wish to be.

I would write plays for my grandmother, who was stone deaf, my mother and the dog, that was our audience.

All writers - all beings - are exiles as a matter of course. The certainty about living is that it is a succession of expulsions of whatever carries the life force...All writers are exiles wherever they live and their work is a lifelong journey towards the lost land.

The act of writing is either something the writer dreads or actually likes, and I actually like it. Even re-writing's fun. You're getting somewhere, whether it seems to move or not.

I think it was the fact that I liked it so much that made the writing just come out of me automatically.

No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge

Read a lot. Reading really helps. Read anything you can get your hands on.

Writing is like making love. Don't worry about the orgasm, just concentrate on the process.

It is the writer who might catch the imagination of young people, and plant a seed that will flower and come to fruition.

Everything becomes agitated. Ideas quick-march into motion like battalions of a grand army to its legendary fighting ground, and the battle rages. Memories charge in, bright flags on high; the cavalry of metaphor deploys with a magnificent gallop; the artillery of logic rushes up with clattering wagons and cartridges; on imagination's orders, sharpshooters sight and fire; forms and shapes and characters rear up; the paper is spread with ink - for the nightly labor begins and ends with torrents of this black water, as a battle opens and concludes with black powder.

Memory is like fiction; or else it's fiction that's like memory. This really came home to me once I started writing fiction, that memory seemd a kind of fiction, or vice versa. Either way, no matter how hard you try to put everything neatly into shape, the context wanders this way and that, until finally the context isn't even there anymore... Warm with life, hopeless unstable.

Writing is the hardest work in the world. I have been a bricklayer and a truck driver, and I tell you – as if you haven't been told a million times already – that writing is harder. Lonelier. And nobler and more enriching.

Apply this simple rule to your conversations: If you wouldn't write it down and sign it, don't say it.

The concept of what I want to do as an artist has not changed at all. When I was seven years old, I fell in love with writing songs and knew I wanted to make music and play it for a lot of people. Back then I said I wanted to heal people with music and bring them together. I called my music, "PAZZ," which means pop and jazz. To this day, all of those things still ring crystal clear.

The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real, for a moment at least, that long magic moment before we wake.

In our time political speech and writing are largely the defense of the indefensible.

Where the people are well educated, the art of piloting a state is best learned from the writings of Plato.

I write as the birds sing, because I must, and usually from the same source of inspiration.

Each age tries to form its own conception of the past. Each age writes the history of the past anew with reference to the conditions uppermost in its own time.

Most rock journalism is people who can't write, interviewing people who can't talk, for people who can't read.

I never wanted to be an editor. I never wanted to be a boss. I just wanted to write, and it didn't make any difference whether it was fiction or nonfiction or short stories or whatever. I just - that's what I was destined to do.

One can write, think and pray exclusively of others; dreams are all egocentric.

Pantaenus was one of these and is said to have gone to India. It is reported that among persons there who knew of Christ, he found the Gospel according to Matthew, which had anticipated his own arrival. For Bartholomew, one of the apostles, had preached to them, and left with them the writing of Matthew in the Hebrew language, which they had preserved till that time. After many good deeds, Pantaenus finally became the head of the school at Alexandria, and expounded the treasures of divine doctrine both orally and in writing.

The line of dialogue belongs to the character; the verb is the writer sticking his nose in.