Writers Will Relate

I want to write, but more than that, I want to bring out all kinds of things that lie buried deep in my heart.

The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.

In November of 1970, forty people were photographed at the exact instant after the photographer said, “You have a beautiful face.”

I will never tell you that you look beautiful. I will never tell you that (you) look lovely. Because those statements hinge on sundresses and too much time looking in the mirror. After all, it is just a piece of glass. And you (are) too, because I see right through the beaming reflections on your skin. And you are deeper than the ocean, calmer than it too. As sweet as dripping honey, and as (soft) as morning dew. You’re that feel(i)ng at 2 (am), when the Sun is asleep and somehow I still don’t feel alone. And you are every gentle raindrop landing on (quiet) rooftops in late July. Your roots sink further than lofty White Oaks, and your reach extends far beyond their branches. You keep every beam of sunlight, your eyes like glowing coals, and every morning the horizon must borrow from all the splendor that you hold. They fill books with all your essence, and it’s still never enough. So I will call you what you are. You are lovely. You are beautiful.

It is as easy to dream a book as it is hard to write one.

Respect your characters, even the minor ones. In art, as in life, everyone is the hero of their own particular story; it is worth thinking about what your minor characters’ stories are, even though they may intersect only slightly with your protagonist’s.