I used to love being alone, but I think I have forgotten how.
I can’t decide if this is good or bad.
I don’t know why I am sad.
I will be online until I stop feeling all the things.
Often when I imagine you,
your wholeness cascades into many shapes.
You run like a herd of luminous deer,
and I am dark;
I am forest.
Ladies and Gentleman, the man that will be in history books. He was throwing the burning tear gas. Not to the cops but away from the children protesting. In his American Shirt and bag of chips. Check his twitter.
I have so much to say to you that I am afraid I shall tell you nothing.
Rules such as “Write what you know,” and “Show, don’t tell,” while doubtlessly grounded in good sense, can be ignored with impunity by any novelist nimble enough to get away with it. There is, in fact, only one rule in writing fiction: Whatever works, works.
One wants to tell a story, like Scheherezade, in order not to die. It’s one of the oldest urges in mankind. It’s a way of stalling death.
Don’t let yourself slip and get any perfect characters… keep them people, people, people, and don’t let them get to be symbols.