Writing Quote - Tumblr Posts

Quotes Pt. 10

"Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way."

- E. L. Doctorow

"I'm still learning how to go back and reread my own chapters without feeling like I want to set all my pages on fire."

- E. V. Rogina

"There will always be a person who looks like a poem earth wrote to keep you alive."

- Juansen Dizon

“Lose yourself in books, in art, in the haze of new horizons. Lose yourself in curiosity, in knowledge, in passion. Lose yourself in feeling it all; lose yourself in the world, in the stories and the lessons it has to teach you, but never lose yourself in love; never lose yourself in another person.

You are your own home--please don't ever forget that."

- Bianca Sparacino, The Strength In Our Scars (@libraryoflanie)

"Per aspera ad astra. I'd heard a variety of translations, but the one I liked the best was Through the thorns, to the stars."

- If We Were Villains, M. L. Rio

"There's a hope in knowing that no matter what you do, or what you say, the world will keep moving forwards."

- K. J. Sinner

The Thoughts That Scare Me

There was a kitten on the driveway once. Not my kitten, nor my driveway but I saw it regardless. It was young, its ears were still flat and no matter how defenseless it looked, it felt like a trap.

I don't know why, just a first initial thought before I started walking and as I walked across the street I was reminded of two things.

One:

"The first thought that goes through your mind is what you have been conditioned to think. What you think next defines who you are.

- Nikolaecuza

It made me wonder what in this world would make something so defenseless so terrible, so terrifying.

Two, another quote, from Rakesh Swain.

". . . No matter how it plays out, I will be the murderer. . . ."

and again, from one sidewalk to the other, I wondered what elicited such a terrifying thought. It was sudden, scooping up the kitten, the pavement burning my hands and its claws dug into my fingers I cursed its abandonment in the same breath I cooed its sorrow.

Nurture has always been nature to me, and I began to wonder about mothers who never wanted children and fathers who never wanted wives alongside children who wondered what love was. It hurt my heart as this little bundle suckled feverishly from a faux nipple.

She was beautiful; Even as she pooped on the carpet and clawed at the leather, she was a tyrant, but she was lovely and seven weeks later she was a beautiful, strong thing and I wondered what could make a man so cruel.

Months after she found a home that loved her as much as I did, weeks after their new family stopped sending me updates of her tyranny and her health, days after I finally accepted this new silence around a cup of tea; I wondered if the strangers that welcomed her home were any different than the strangers that left her in the August heat.

Forgotten Box

I'd like to think if there was a box filled with everything I'd ever lost I'd look for the little things I've lost on the bus, at school, under my bed; headphones, charger boxes, trinkets, and jewelry.

At least, that's what I'd like to think but I know before it's closed, I'm going to look for time, that feeling I got when I started a new game, or when I felt pretty or smart or social. The intangible things you don't find under the bed or on the weird place by the stairs.

I know it's a hypothetical question, and I'll never find a box with all the things I've lost but, like you plan out exactly what you'd ask a genie if you ever met one; I'm going to hope one day I come across an odd box and I won't waste time on old bracelets.

Lost

"I think I'm lost."

"What do you mean?" Angelica laughed, "You're at home, what do you mean you're lost."

Estrella sighed. "Inside."

"Ah."

"Yeah." Angelica sighed, a long drawn out, tired sound, "Oh Estrella, my love. Did you wander too far?" Estrella nodded even though it was silent it was understood. "Where did you go?"

"I don't know."

"My love, where is your light?"

"I don't know."

"Alright my love, where are you not?"

[And] This gave pause because as lost as she felt Estrella never thought to wonder where she wasn't.

"I'm not at home, or outside, it's dark here."

"Dark you say, the dark can be haunting. What else?" Estrella sighed, standing up somewhere dark.

"It's quiet, not in the silent kind of way though, it's uncomfortable, empty, there's too much space around me and it's colder than it is warm."

"Dark, quiet, and empty, it's cold and uncomfortable. Sounds a lot like home, doesn't it?" Estella choked but didn't reply, too afraid the hurt would sound too much like rage.

"Can you stand, my love?" Estrella nodded, slowly, finding a place to set her feet. "Why don't you walk around for a little while? Try one, just one first." Estrella took a step back, something in her trembling violently. "Foward, Estrella."

"I'm scared."

"That's okay."

"I can't."

"Then you should."

"Angelica!"

"Estrella." Estrella cried, something about putting one foot in front of the other terrified her more than staying in the dark. She tried to take a step forward and it hurt like something she never could've imagined, and she jumped back.

"I can't do it. I can't. I can't." For once, Angelica didn't respond. "Angelica? Angelica where'd you'd go?"

"I'm here." Estrella exhaled in relief,

"I can't do it."

"Try again."

"But I can't. Angelica, I can't. I can't do it." Something small and gold began to float about, no bigger than a firefly, it swirled as if it was dancing. Estrella took a step towards it, and it fluttered away, before long Estrella was on a chase, the little golden finch always three steps ahead and then it was gone, and the world was dark again. Estrella cried, looking around solemnly, feeling more lost than she arrived, but somewhere in the distance, some 50 feet ahead was a brighter place than she was. She moved there without thinking about her feet and in that little circle was a grass so green it didn't seem real. "Angelica?"

"Yes, my love?" She sounded tired now,

"I think I did it." Estrella smiled, "I did it."

"I'm so proud of you my love."

"It's not a lot, just a space, but it's better than the dark."

"It's better than the dark." She smiled, curling up in her place high in the sky, "That it is."

Wasteland

Give me time, you wasteland,

You're tireless and consuming and I don't know what to do with you

Yet in the same breath, you're nothing at all

[And] That overwhelms me too,

Because I know at the end of the day, you're just like me,

And I'm just like you.

Expectations

Is it so wrong to want someone to look at me like I'm the stars?

Their distance and vastness, to look at the stars and say "They seem so lonely."

To see my sorrow and my suffering and look at me with pride instead of pity.

To see a girl, instead of strong, independent woman,

Don't get me wrong. I am strong. I am independent and willing to grow but I am still a girl.

And I am still scared.

Is that so wrong? To be less than my expectation? To be less than what everyone expects of me?

Can't I be scared?

Can't I be less?

Can't I be the stars?

Phobia

"Do you have any odd phobias? Like I know the dark, and the ocean, and clowns and stuff like that but like a really odd one y'know."

Jebidiah thought for a moment, thinking back to all the things that gave him pause or a feeling of uncanny valley. "You know how you unplug a fan or game system or something and it takes it a second to actually shut down? I used to always think they were experiencing their last moments in that second, like how our life flashes before our eyes before we die. I stress that we die every time we go to sleep, waking up with only a vaguely backlog of memories of times, places, and people. That's why we forget things sometimes, we didn't die normally that time and the memories didn't transfer over."

"Jeez man are you okay?"

"Yeah, why do you ask?"

"I thought you were gonna say like a specific type of sea slug or something, something not . . . existential."

Jebidiah laughed, "I am afraid of Sea Angels, yes."

Hopelessly Emotional

I crave emotional connection through the presence of body.

Sitting at the same table doing different things,

I want to do puzzles with you,

Listen to music and read the same books,

I want to be in your space,

And you in mine.

I don't know if that makes me a hopeless romantic or just hopeless

Am I Wrong? (Swearing)

Is it so wrong to want the best for you?

Is it so wrong to want a better, safer, more comfortable life for you?

Am I wrong to love you so much I want change for you, not for you to change?

Is that so wrong?

Is it worse that I don't care?

That I love you so much more than your opinion of my expectation of you?

Is it wrong that I love you?

That I want you for you?

That I need for you?

[And] If you are to disagree, tell me I am allowed to want for you,

Am i furthermore allowed to be upset when you don't want it for yourself too?

If I'm allowed to want for you, aren't I allowed to cry, and scream, and fight?

Why is that where you draw the line?

Why can I want, but not will?

Is that really so fucking wrong?

Martyr

I don't want to look at you and see a martyr, A reason to look at that god and ask, why?

Don't make me look at you and see all the reasons that I have failed. I never said I was perfect. I am an atrophy of ideas, A martyr of beliefs, Please don't let me look at you and see someone like me.

I know it's a lot to ask, especially of someone who doesn't really know me, but can you do that for me?

I'll give you time, Space, A reason to believe you're more than a graveyard of expectations But you have to promise me one thing;

Just one, that's all I ask I want you to pretend, just for a little while, that you're more than the death of an idea, of an expectation? That you're more than the idea, the expectation, more than the idea that you didn't mean their expectation despite meeting yours.

I don't want to look at you and see a martyr, and I think you know that too I don't want to look at you, standing still in that mirror, and see someone like me.

So promise me, the next time I look at you, Hours, days, weeks, maybe even minutes, I won't see a martyr, for having beliefs.

Home

What is a home but that place you eventually put behind you?

Where you learn that you hate the toilet paper on the right side and wish the couch was closer to the window.

What is a home but a reminder of everything that made you cry, scream, love?

You lived there, learned, loved, exercised, grew up and you're not a little kid anymore, and you hate the color you painted your room.

What is a home if not the place you drive by twenty years down the line and wish life was simpler then too?

You learn to make a home as you grow up and you made it a point to make it nothing like the home you knew.

The walls are your favorite colors, not just whatever covered the stains.

Your kitchen has knobs because you always got your fingers trapped in the handle.

Your house feels like a home, and as good as that is, it's still a home.

[And] What is a home but a place you eventually leave behind?

Check-Ins

I don't know what I'm going to tell my mother when I stop calling her every day.

When I'm busy or tired.

I don't know what I'm going to tell her when our phone calls and messages are shortened, and I have to go.

I don't know what I'll tell my mother when she calls me upset that I never make time for her, I'm always busy and distant.

I don't know what I'm going to tell my mother when she begins to understand how she made her child feel.

Neglected, not important enough, time-consuming.

I don't know what to tell you

I don't know what I'm going to tell you when you're too old to talk to and I have to visit.

And like the phone calls, they'll start to dwindle. Weeks will turn into months, will turn into years.

Then you'll be gone, and I'll wish I'd called more.

Wish you'd called more. Wish we didn't fight. Wish you were kind.

I don't know when I'm going to tell you that I was a girl, a kid at that, but I was your daughter at the end of the day.

I don't know what I'm going to say to my mother the day she dies but; I hope it's kind.

Muse

I don't write because I have to or even want to. I write because there's a lot going on in my head and I don't know how to talk to people. I'm going to write a book one day and everyone who ever knew me will finally understand me.

I am a broken record only surviving by the grace of its contradictions.

I hope to pour myself into my writing, I hope to make myself my words. I hope that one far down the line I am not recognized like Shakespeare, and J.K. Rowling, but like Mitch Albom and Althea Davis. I hope my writing lights a fire in somebody's heart and that make it everything they hold dear to them.

Sure, I get writer's block and it's frustrating, but it also means my mind is in a quiet place, even if I don't want to be. Despite all the chaos it found serenity and I'm proud of it for that. My brain is such a chaotic place. It scary and scared as most things are, fear making itself tangible in that funny kind of way.

At the end of the day, I write because I can. I write everything I know about as if tomorrow none of it will exist. It's scary and it's tragic but gods is it all I have. So let it be messy, let it be wrong, let it be too long for the simplicity of being it all, let it be. I may regret a lot of things in life, don't let my words be one of them. Don't let the one thing that brought me peace, torment me.

Please

Absent Gods

I've been praying to a God I don't believe in.

I don't know why, or when, but I have. Every now and again I find myself stopping in coffee shop windows and quiet waiting rooms; praying.

There are no words exchanged, none from me, and none from them, but we speak to a degree, silently. It's not peace, certainly not, but it is a form of clarity. Quiet and surrendering.

I don't know whose God I've found in the barren wastelands of my distrust, in the guarded walls of my lust, but I've found a God I don't believe in; and that's granted me enough.

We don't talk every day, we barely talk at all, but I often find myself talking, regardless of the silence. It's the only silence that never rang in my ears, made my heartbeat seem so loud, so distant.

It feels right, at times, like how a good pen feels or a nice soft sweater not too hot for summer. For that, I haven't tried to figure out who this God is, perhaps by intention.

It may be odd, but I know, whenever I need to, whenever I can, there's someone, something out in the world, or not, listening, acknowledging, and that's enough to me.

I've been praying to a God I don't believe in, and for now, that's fine.

Am I Lonely?

Am I lonely? Is that subjective? Does it matter? Do I?

I wonder

Are they really my friends? Or am I just so consistent they don't have a choice? Am I nice? Or is it just easier to be nice than exert the energy to be honest? Am I lonely? Or are people just one of those things I just don't understand?

I wonder

Do I care? If I'm lonely I mean, I think I do, I want to. It's a very complex emotion, and it's one of those things that don't come alone. Am I lonely? Or am I tired? It is unfathomably late and there's a voice in my head that's been whispering sweet nothings since midnight. Is it the hour? Or the day? Maybe the time, not just the hour. Am I thinking too much? Making myself believe I'm lonely? I could be faking it. Just to feel something, but if that's the case why must it be lonely?

I think I just want to be understood. For someone to look at me, see me, and go, "Oh honey," I want a hug, I want it to feel real, not just a formality, I want to be trusted; I want to trust.

God, Am I lonely? Is that my tragedy? Am I surrounded by love I will never see? What a tragedy indeed. Am I lonely?

Cruel Gods, Our Pliant Creators

I'm no good at trigger warnings, but it's up there in the "what the fuck" department :)(:

As a little girl I grew up wanted to tell the Gods that they were cruel, to stand on the tippy-tops of my toes on my bed and ask;

"What did I do?"

Because of course, I didn't do anything. Not as a girl, not as a woman, and yet from a young age I knew I was cursed. I was a slave in my own body and a trap to those outside of it.

And again, I asked cruel Gods, "What could I have possibly done?"

And without answer, again and again, I turned to books. Holy text, fiction, literature, and history and I learned from a young age that it was always our fault. People were always at fault and that only proved the cruelty.

I tried to explain it. I tried to rationalize it. Mostly to myself, then to other people but they only told me, time and time again;

"Come now, silly girl, the gods have always been cruel, they always will be."

I didn't want to agree. I wanted to believe in a world of kindness, freedom, security, but alas it was only a belief and I was only a girl. And I could keep believing as I became a woman, Keep believing as cruel gods turned true love into tragedy, Safety into safety nets, designed to strangle, Freedom for the dominion, Security for proprietary, Kindness for security. A vicious game, cruel gods often played.

Eventually, though, I learned I played their games, You never win any trophies, but there are silent victories. You learn there's safety in communication. Security in solitude. Kindness in ourselves. Freedom is a bit harder to find. Doesn't matter where you look. Those petty little gods hold it so nearly yet so far you know you'll never have it but you can't help but leap. And you will leap, you'll never quite get it, not beyond a grasp. A breath of freedom. A gasp of fresh air. It's a petty game, but you have no choice to play. Especially when the gods are cruel, pliant forces. Especially when the gods are men.

You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.

Jack London [x]