“Every so often I take an idea, plant it in the compost, and wait. It feeds on that black stuff that used to be a life, takes its energy for its own. It germinates. Takes root. Produces shoots. And so on and so for the, until one fine day I have a story, or a novel.”
“Human lives are not pieces of string that can be separated out from a knot of others and laid out straight. Families are webs. Impossible to touch one part of it without setting the rest vibrating. Impossible to understand one part without having a sense of the whole.”
How could one write so beautifully about love yet without a love story?
It amazed me, triggered the unsatisfied soul underneath my lazy bones.
Every sentence gives a ripple, rippling in mind and brings a picture in life, thousands of moving pictures.
A book after a book, a writer is always a reader, for the lust after words it not just giving, but also taking.
When can I write something that if can’t compare to those I deeply admired, at least won’t shame myself?
How can I express better, with more colorful choice of words and richer content, conjuring vivid pictures sleep n other’s mind.
What slowing my writing down isn’t only what my editor tells me, but also I found my stories not as good as those I love to read.
Not enough, way far from those I will keep beside my bed and want to read again and again.
I want a better me.
A writer me.
A good enough me to make myself buy.
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