richelle-goodrich

Who told you it was too late? And more importantly, why did you choose to believe them?

Like yeast, it__ impressive how considerably an ounce of determination can make one__ efforts grow and expand.

You are right, I do fall down a lot. But that wouldn__ be true if I never stood back up.

If you plan to build walls around me, know this__ will walk through them.

There are days when writing is within my power and a story unfolds along a_course I've already chosen. _And then there are days when the words breathe on their own and take me by the hand, leading me along unfathomed paths. _Either way, the end result is this author's fairytale.

I write so others might contemplate things that are out of the ordinary. I write to make people feel__o cause laughter and tears and anger at injustice. I write so the world will imagine and wonder at crazy, incredible truths. I write to have a tiny bit of influence on a universal conscience.

Someone described a writer's world as tormented, and I had to laugh. _A tormented writer? _I personally wouldn't have put those two words together. _Emotions have the power to torment a soul, yes, I agree to that. _But writers, through the formation of our characters, delve so often into the depths of a vast range of emotions that we earn the advantage. _For we've examined every little thrumming, fracture, spark, pang, and darkening of the heart to a point that we understand and appreciate the necessity and strength of emotions as well as the cause and effects manipulating them. _We understand. _We can imagine. _We sympathize. _Our knowledge is power over the torment of emotional ignorance. _I would suggest that those truly tormented are the readers of our works because those poor souls shall never know with such clarity and sentiment all the tiny little details that make our characters breath, move, and live before our very eyes. _Perhaps, if torment does lurk among writers, it comes simply through knowing more about an imagined friend than can ever be adequately expressed in words.

When I finally find that one willing agent, I'll have found my prize in the Cracker Jack box.

No matter what you write, no matter how meticulous and painstaking the creation process, someone is going to laugh, scorn, and dissect your work with criticism while another quietly falls in love with it.

Twitter is a serious writing distraction. As are grapefruits. The two have nothing else in common.

I read so I might live a thousand lives in a lifetime. I write to control the particulars in those lives.

Sometimes when I prepare to write, I feel the same sensation wash over me as if my toes were curling over the brink of a high cliff, my gaze peering downward into a dark pond, and I anxiously wonder, will the water prove deep enough? Will my words be satisfactory?

I might be tempted to socialize more if the conversations taking place around me were half as interesting as the dialogue going on inside my head.

I love writing poetry because it's pretty. I love writing pretty.

Past and Present I know well; each is a friend and sometimes an enemy to me. But it is the quiet, beckoning Future, an absolute stranger, with whom I have fallen madly in love.

Sometimes ideas flow from my mind in a raging river of stringed sentences; I can scarcely scribble on the page fast enough to keep up with the mental current. Sometimes, however, beavers move in and dam the whole thing up.

A writer writesregardless...even though...notwithstanding...despite...at any rate...anyhow...nevertheless...in the face of...undeterred by...heedless of...and because.The true writer simply continues to write.

Pride is not your friend. He would have you think he is, that he affords you strength and courage, but in truth he robs you of your health and by slow, diluted degrees steals your might. He is a crafty and cunning liar who would have you think that stubborn, unapologetic, superior, boastful, and popular are admirable traits. Pride would convince you that being right is more crucial than being kind. He would have you sever relationships, even turn your back on family and friends rather than utter a humble apology. To do so is beneath you, pride would say. He would have you fight like a raptor and gnash your teeth while jutting out an inflexible jaw to defend and protect him, regardless of who is hurt in the process. He would use and demean you in order to puff up and fortify himself. He would destroy your life and every meaningful association before casting you aside without a hint of remorse. Again, Pride is not your friend.