reading-books

Just write. That's my only tip. And read. I guess that's two.

I am forever an advocate of books, both the reading of them and the writing. There is something sacred to me in that community. Because writing--and reading--is a solitary business. And it__ good to know I__ not alone.

There was a day when writers actually read," he grumbles. "They could quote Keats and Socrates. Now anyone with a keyboard and a fifth-grade education can call themselves a writer.

Sometimes I wonder if novel writers aren__ completely f**ked in the head. ~ Drew Stirling

? Reviews are for readers AND authors. It__ a good way of learning from what people think about the work. Being it good or bad. A book might as well be hurt by a bad, poorly written review. That__ such a pity. Some people don__ know how to express themselves, and maybe that__ why they are just readers and not writers, others read a book like chewing a cupcake. That__ too bad. If that was not your cup of tea, leave it there, untouched. Don__ go bash the author for that. But if you really hate the book, why bother telling others. It__ your problem after all. You can give constructive opinions but don__ blame the author for your different tastes and views. Also authors shouldn__ comment on reviews, it sounds unprofessional, even silly. Some busy writers don__ even have time to read what other people say about their work. If someone enjoyed your book, or not, that is irrelevant. If you will continue or not to write something else it doesn´t add to the plate.. Besides, why bother commenting on a review, just read it and shut up. Being it good or bad. So my opinions about authors commenting on reviews is just my opinions after all!

He was thirty-six years old, and six foot three. He spoke English to people and French to cats, and Latin to the birds. He had once nearly killed himself trying to read and ride a horse at the same time.

There is something called the rapture of the deep, and it refers to what happens when a deep-sea diver spends too much time at the bottom of the ocean and can't tell which way is up. When he surfaces, he's liable to have a condition called the bends, where the body can't adapt to the oxygen levels in the atmosphere. All of this happens to me when I surface from a great book.

It feels like someone is gripping my heart and twisting it. It feels like I can't breathe. I shut my eyes tightly against the memory that is threatening to surface. I can't br

When I have money, I invest in buying books. My personal development by reading these books is my greatest pleasure.

He had a strange relationship with books. He had the notion that people who wrote novels were also lonely. He believed this more and more, reading between the lines of the novels he'd loved. Most books were about one kind of loneliness or another, about people who couldn't get what they wanted, people who found things hard, who were slow, or sad, or difficult. So he read most evenings, finding a comfort in following words written by someone like him.

Reading is poor man's way of travelling not just around the world but into the minds of people.

Perhaps it is true that at base we readers are dissatisfied people, yearning to be elsewhere, to live vicariously through words in a way we cannot live directly through life. Perhaps we are the world's great nomads, if only in our minds...I am the sort of person who prefers to stay at home, surrounded by family, friends, familiarity, books...It turns out that when my younger self thought of taking wing, she wanted only to let her spirit soar. Books are the plane, and the train, and the road. They are the destination, and the journey. They are home.

For me, books have always been the greatest gifts. I love to give and receive them because I know they are a reflection of the giver.

I love words. _I crave descriptions that overwhelm my imagination with vivid detail. _I dwell on phrases that make my heart thrum. _I cherish expressions that pierce my emotions and force the tears to spill over. _ In essence, I long for a writer's soul sealed in ink on the page.

Oh my," she said as though to herself. "The rumors are true, you have been kept in the dark.

What do you mean 'has to be?' and what are you smiling at?" I stopped contributing to this ridiculous dance. I grabbed the teapot and began to fill it with water in the sink. Suddenly I felt the slight weight of his body against my back and the corner of his mouth brushed against my ear. "How human you are," he whispered.

My face flushed scarlet. I was a stranger in my own skin. I had ever felt this kind of anger in my life. Fort and confusion grew. Its sensation was an overwhelming concoction of hate. The only things I knew - the only things keeping me remotely calm- was the following litany.My name is Eleanora Ada Stone. I was moved from home to home for seventeen years. I am now living on this god-forsaken island in Maine. I was being kept from a world of secrets. I have abilities. I am not human. I do not know what I am.

What do you mean 'has to be?' and what are you smiling at?" I stopped contributing to this ridiculous dance. I grabbed the teapot and began to fill it with water in the sink.Suddenly I felt the slight weight go this body against my back and the corner of his mouth brushed adjacent my ear."How human you are," he whispered.