Barkley Von Schnauzer

here is your gentle reminder that there are dandelions growing through cracks in the sidewalk. there is a fence lizard on the porch who is growing a new tail. there are trees growing through an abandoned house, branches tearing through the ceiling, ferns carpeting the floor. there is life pushing forward, pushing through. 

me: i’m a good writer. i know my worth and i’m confident in my skill set and i know i can do this.  me, five minutes later: what if i’m terrible? what if everyone who has ever read my work and thought it was good was lying? too afraid to tell me the truth? blackmailed by aliens? what if everything i write is terrible and too scattered/forced/hollow what if i don’t know how to make a sentence. where do verbs go. how do u emotion

I lived in books more than I lived anywhere else.

what a privilege it is to come home to a little animal that loves you like you're their whole world.

writing is hard because sometimes you want to write a sentence that is pleasant and rhythmic and compelling to read and sometimes you just want to get the characters across a damn room

no thoughts, just 200 half-finished drafts living rent-free in my brain

“omg you’re so creative. how do you get your ideas” i hallucinate a single scene in the taco bell drive thru and then spend 13 months trying to write it

writing? oh, i’m definitely writing. in my head. during the most inconvenient times. like in the shower or when i’m about to fall asleep. actual typing? no, no, we don’t do that here.

“just start writing” they say, as if i don’t first need to reread my worldbuilding notes, tweak the map i made three years ago, and research medieval shoe-making techniques for a scene that won’t even make it into the book.