writers-life

Gratitude is the gateway to a positive life.

You heard me cry long before I knew my voice.

We encounter truth within.

A pen name is a nickname.

I__ still lonely and it__ a glorification of something I__ not finished with. I don__ want to be distracted from my work by other people, but the absence of it all distracts me from my work and that__ why I run towards the city, to get a little glimpse of it.

The written word is the greatest sacred documentation.

One author said "I write because I want to live a footprint in the sands of history._ It's hard to live a footprint in the sands of history when giants are passing through the same sands unless you are one of the giants

I am not a supporter of burning books; but like poison, some books should be kept away from simple minds who can't take in the strong content they provide

I used to be afraid about what people might say or think after reading what I had written. I am not afraid anymore, because when I write, I am not trying to prove anything to anyone, I am just expressing myself and my opinions. It__ ok if my opinions are different from those of the reader, each of us can have his own opinions. So writing is like talking, if you are afraid of writing, you may end up being afraid of talking

When we step onto the bridge, Nathan turns and spreads his arms out wide. __elcome to Pont des Arts, a.k.a. The Lock Bridge.

I freeze, my feet suddenly glued to the floor. It takes me a minute to gather the courage to turn around, but when I do, I immediately wish I hadn't. The boy is standing in the doorway at the end of the hall.Why is he here again? I barely allow myself time to ask the question before I move. Panicked, I turn and run back downstairs as fast as I can."Hey! Wait!" he calls after me.I don't stop.

I grab the nearest lamppost when my knees threaten to give out, panting for breath as the words rip through me

I head in the direction of the Eiffel Tower when I exit the alley, relieved to be out of the dark.

Every gesture and every look he gives me takes me by surprise and causes my heart to stutter.

He smirks, shaking his head and letting his eyes wander. I watch him carefully, wondering what I can say to get him to leave. ____ not leaving until you answer some questions. Plus, I__ holding your sketchbook hostage, so you might want to cooperate._ I raise an eyebrow at him. I guess there isn__ much I can say. __his isn__ a hostage negotiation._ He chuckles half-heartedly as his eyes take me in, almost sizing me up. __ guess I should introduce myself._ He holds a hand out for me to shake. ____ Nathan._ I stare at his hand for a moment. __aylor,_ I reply, meeting his eyes again without taking his hand. He lets his hand fall back to his side. __t least I got you to say something non-hostile._ __ haven__ been hostile,_ I object. His eyebrows shoot up. __h, haven__ you?_ __hy don__ you leave me alone?_ I snap. __eave and don__ come back._ I move passed him, heading for my apartment. He can__ follow and annoy me if I lock the door. __here are you going?_ he demands. I look back over my shoulder and roll my eyes at him, indicating the answer should be obvious: anywhere he isn__. Once inside, I slam the door behind me. __hat was totally not hostile!_ he calls after me, sarcastically. I quickly head for my bedroom door, slamming it, too.

I take in all the colorful locks that line the bridge. Each one told a story. Each lock represented a relationship that was once special, whether it ended or turned into true happiness. The locks represented a past, present, and a possible future.

The boy took my sketchbook.

The hours tick by as I lie in bed.Memories keep surfacing, tormenting me into unbelievable sadness. I can't bring myself to move. I can't fight the memories that keep filling my thoughts. I stay curled in the fetal position as each memory plays out. I can't stop them from coming. I can't make them go away. Nothing can distract me. I can't block the memories, so they continue to come.