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Writer Quotes

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Writer Quotes

“There is, in fact, a whole planet of literary appreciation that is only distantly orbiting the actual texts. People declare themselves in favor of Jeffersonian democracy, or label a situation Kafkaesque, who haven’t read Jefferson or Kafka in years, or ever. Books are declared overrated, overlooked, major, minor, offensive and/or life-changing without being opened. Our shelves are full of mighty statements important to us that we haven’t quite gotten around to yet, and books from distant schooldays whose sole purpose is to show we’ve read them, and sometimes--often--we haven’t.”

ReadingBooksWriterWritersWriters On Writing
Book:And Then? And Then? What Else?
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“Let me tell you about my favorite day of the month, properly dubbed my A.D.I.B. (stands for All Day In Bed). On that designated day, I will buy candy, chocolates and order any fast food meal of my choosing. I will then spend the rest of my A.D.I.B. in my pajamas on the couch, watching a movie marathon. I’ll watch the corniest chick flicks, the most romantic of dramas, and the cheesiest comedies. I will also pour myself a relaxing hot bubble bath with aromatherapy beads while reading a magazine. That entire day, I am off the grid and completely unplugged!”

InspirationalWritingBookReadingQuoteAuthorWriterNonfictionSelfcare
Book:Be The Sunshine
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“One time one guy said he had a stroke reading my absurd writing, so I said, “Thank you for your service.” Then I continued washing my dishes in my lawnmower, because my ducks were splashing around in the kitchen sink.”

WritingReadingAbsurdWriterDucksDishesSurrealDuckDuck QuoteDuck Quotes
Book:Music is fluid, and my saxophone overflows when my ducks slosh in the sounds I make in elevators.
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“We know from myths and fairy tales that there are many different kinds of powers in this world. One child is given a light saber, another a wizard’s education. The trick is not to amass all the different kinds of available power, but to use well the kind you’ve been granted. Introverts are offered keys to private gardens full of riches. To possess such a key is to tumble like Alice down her rabbit hole. She didn’t choose to go to Wonderland—but she made of it an adventure that was fresh and fantastic and very much her own. Lewis Carroll was an introvert, too, by the way. Without him, there would be no Alice in Wonderland. And by now, this shouldn’t surprise us.”

WritingCreativeSolitudeQuietWriterIntrovertIntroversionAlice In WonderlandLewis Carroll
Book:Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking
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“Red wine and Hennessy She fell out of her bottle when she fell into love, cup running over, overflowing emotions in glass- red stained palet, on a pallet on the grass, to a quilt on the floor -affixed between lips and red lipstick on a shirt that he wore. A familiar place, she know she's been here before Reminiscent of the evening On his shirt that she tore ............ Drop by drop, puddle in glass getting lower- impressions in her gut, rim of her glass, hour glass figure moves counter clockwise - while absorbing the contents of merlot. Hard liquor and fine wine ............. Red Wine and Hennessy A wicked twist on some champagne tips French nails, manicures over grapes Whoever said wine and liquor don't mix? Last night I had six Bottle caps, corks, bedazzled juice Merlot was her name - slim waist - good taste slinger neck, red lace. Long stem, pedestal - hands embraced her face ............. room temperature, her body temperature ... personality of two, she's mellow and chill... aged to perfection- pop the seal- watch the erection ... splatters on the floor- covers the rug, Residue of red lipstick- Merlot stained lips match the kiss on his neck ............ Chasing fantasy through the Red Sea While chasing that with a white BC How much will she pour- how much will she drink How much more before her ship sinks ........... A full body lush, blackberry crush Medium sized Bordeaux Intense velvety plum I asked her where she's from She said she's international She's longer thinking rational .......... Sips in sync with blinking eyes She sips too much to realize Every time you pour into me, my bottle gets more empty- Glass falling to the floor She staggers to the door Glass shatters her feet She stumbles to her seat She's still asking for more But she falls to the floor Red lipstick in the mud She covers up the blood ............ She lays in her wine She forgot about the time Clock on the wall Footsteps in the hall Pounding in her head She rushes to the bed ......... She lays motionless ... but her head is racing Her heart is pacing Her lungs are gasping - air, she needs air Rolls to her side, brings her self to sit up She gags and gags until She throws it all up- ........... Wakes up the next morning Dazed and confused She's laying in a bed That she's not used to She moves slowly, where did everyone go? She checks the time- it's a quarter pass 4 sounds on the other side of the door Are Muffled by the sound of a knock at the door ........... Looks around for her little red dress Notices a blotch - a red stain on her breast Lipstick smeared an accessory to her mess She reached for her clothes and saw a note on the desk. .......... Dearly beloved, I want to see you again I'd love to have to back I think we make a great blend I tried to wake you Because I had to go And Oh by the way, my name is merlot "Little Black Bird”

PoetryBooksPoemAuthorWriterNiedria KennyNiedriaNiedria Dionne KennyNiedria D Kenny
Book:Love, Lust and Regrets: While the lights were off
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“The Unknowable Scribe by Stewart Stafford Behind the looking glass, Lurks the trembling hand of deception, How deep it goes. Scratching worthlessly on the glass, Yet leaving diamond shavings in its wake, To ponder over endlessly. Question not, despise not, Seek no answers here For there are none to give. The cygnet is mooncalf, To the mighty swan, Cat's paw to catchpenny. Birther to birthing, A classification of bedding, To redress the baseness of our grindings. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.”

PoetryPoemWriterShakespeareWriters LifeWilliam ShakespeareShakespearean InsultShakespeare S PlaysPoems On WritingEdward De Vere
Author:Stewart Stafford
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“Here there was a cheerful boy At least he created tales and lived in joy. Nursery rhymes his grandmother told, Songs and tales emerged gladly in gold. Caring heart, affection spoke loud as brighter, He made the decision: he would be a writer! Rising laughters, crying tears, many feelings, Inserted everything and nothing was in vain. So he transformed the ugly into beautiful, Tales to amuse and make everyone sane, In there he went, without daydreams or zeal. As such it was born the icon of literature still. No one denied he was exceedingly bountiful. A ballerina loves the soldier in his world, Nothing gets involved in his fairy tales, Dancing from a poor weak boy to a king, Eccentric prince of charm in winged corners! Rare star of sweet tenderness, Sensible and masterful in tenderness, Emchanted kingdom of dreams and candor, Now a divine fire of a soul he shines. Havia um menino alegre porem so Ao menos criava contos e deles vivia Nas historias que contava sua avo, Seus contos surgiam pois ele os via. Carinho nao faltava em seu coracao ator, Havia tomado a decisao: seria escritor! Risos, lagrimas, sentimentos saos, Inseria tudo e nada era em vao. Transformava ate o feio em belo, Inadvertia e divertia com seu elo, Adiante ia, sem devaneios e zelo. Nascia assim o icone da literatura. A bailarina ama o soldado em seu mundo, Nada se interpunha em seus contos de fadas, De pobre menino fraco e cogitabundo, Era principe de encantos em cantos alados! Rara estrela de doce brandura, Sensata e magistral em ternura, Em seu reino de sonhos e candura, No fogo divino de sua alma fulgura.”

PoetryArtistTalentPoemTalesWriterHomageAcrosticRhymesHans Christian Andersen
Book:ACross Tic
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“It’s just that . . . well, I like the night. And it’s a good place to hide.” “Hide? From what?” Stella inched away, making a face. “I come out here to practice, Mama. I’ve got stuff in my head, but I don’t know how to get it out. I try to write it down some“times, but I’m not very good at it. It’s like my brains are dumplings in somebody else’s soup.” She looked up toward the stars, but even the sky had turned murky. Her mother hugged her closer. “I’ve talked to Gertrude Grayson a time or two,” she said gently. Stella stiffened. Betrayed! “She says you are the best thinker in the school.”

InspirationWordsWriterHistorical FictionThinkerMothersTeachersDaughters
Book:Stella by Starlight
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