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Writers Life Quotes

Browse 194 quotes about Writers Life.

Writers Life Quotes

“Lonely. My heart grips as the word crosses my mind. So many different feelings come with the word, not just loneliness. The word went beyond its definition. Loneliness has a deeper meaning to those who truly know what it means to be alone.”

“He stares at me—taking me in—with his lips slightly parted. I struggle to hold myself in place as we gawk at each other. I want so desperately to run, but something is holding me back, keeping me in place.”

“One of his hands move away from my face to flatten against my back, pulling me closer to him as he deepens the kiss. He parts my lips under his as my mind seems to sign quietly in content. I kiss him back as fiercely as he kisses me, unable to control the infatuation that rushes through me - feeling almost like fireworks. Not so careful anymore. Little shivers of urgency shoot through me. I push off the window, pressing closer to him. The rush of sensation that is coursing through me feels like I've drunk a gallon of coffee. It feels like an electric buzz is flooding between us.”

“He drinks his coffee tentatively, glancing at me every few seconds, watching me. Every time he glances in my direction, I quickly turn away though he obviously knows I'm watching him. I know he's wondering why I'm staring at him, but he doesn't ask. I finally take a sip of coffee, set the mug back on the table, and voice what's on my mind, "I want to draw you.”

“I'm being pulled under - father and farther from the surface. My lungs continue to scream for air. Panic is building inside me, threatening to combust. I can't break free. Help! I can't break free! I open my mouth to scream.”

“Night has settled over Paris. The streets have cleared of the crowds, and the city has been lit up. I set my book down, deciding to go for a walk. The Eiffel Tower is only a few blocks away. Now that there aren't many people out, I can walk there without having to fight my way through mobs of gawking tourists.”

“He smirks, shaking his head and letting his eyes wander. I watch him carefully, wondering what I can say to get him to leave. “I’m not leaving until you answer some questions. Plus, I’m holding your sketchbook hostage, so you might want to cooperate.” I raise an eyebrow at him. I guess there isn’t much I can say. “This isn’t a hostage negotiation.” He chuckles half-heartedly as his eyes take me in, almost sizing me up. “I guess I should introduce myself.” He holds a hand out for me to shake. “I’m Nathan.” I stare at his hand for a moment. “Taylor,” I reply, meeting his eyes again without taking his hand. He lets his hand fall back to his side. “At least I got you to say something non-hostile.” “I haven’t been hostile,” I object. His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, haven’t you?” “Why don’t you leave me alone?” I snap. “Leave and don’t come back.” I move passed him, heading for my apartment. He can’t follow and annoy me if I lock the door. “Where 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’t. Once inside, I slam the door behind me. “That was totally not hostile!” he calls after me, sarcastically. I quickly head for my bedroom door, slamming it, too.”

“It feels like someone is gripping my heart and twisting it. It feels like I can't breathe. I shut my eyes tightly against the memory that is threatening to surface. I can't breathe. Can't breathe. Can't breathe!”

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

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

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

“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.”

“When we step onto the bridge, Nathan turns and spreads his arms out wide. ‘Welcome 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.”

“The boy took my sketchbook.”

“She: Hello. I am a big fan of yours, Mr. Writer. He: Do you seriously like reading my words? She: I won't tell a lie to you. From the day I started reading your words, they connected with a deeper part of my soul. He: This is so amazing to hear. Glad my words could make you feel something. She: I have anxiety issues. I usually cannot sleep untill 3am most nights. So, I stay up late in the night and stalk you. That's when I spend time reading your words and checking your posts. They mean a lot to me. I am obsessively in love with your words. He: Wow! Just Fantastic. I am elated to meet you. She: And I am ecstatic to meet you. I have been following you from the past five years. I have come here to this city, specially to meet you.”

“She: Hello. I am a big fan of yours, Mr. Writer. He: Hello. Do you seriously like reading my words? She: I won't tell a lie to you. From the day I started reading your words, they connected with a deeper part of my soul. He: This is so amazing to hear. Glad my words could make you feel something. She: I have anxiety issues. I usually cannot sleep untill 3 am most nights. So, I stay up late in the night and stalk you. That's when I spend time reading your words and checking your posts. They mean a lot to me. I am obsessively in love with your words. He: Wow! Just Fantastic. I am elated to meet you. She: And I am ecstatic to meet you. I have been following you from the past five years. I have come here to this city, specially to meet you.”

“silences have deeper meaning. i like silences. i talk to my silences. i inhale the myriad fragrances of silences. these silences know me well. these silences find me when i need them. silences are profound. silences are eloquent. silences are deep. silences are my symphony. there is a charm of these silences. i know these silences well. silences say more than words ever could.”

“Identifying as a writer is a matter of self-acceptance. It's not a thing that can be given to you, or bestowed upon you. You are a writer if you write. That's it. If what you are seeking is to be acknowledged as a writer by other people, many of them strangers, you're in for a demoralizing journey. It is a silly club where those who have been 'accepted' are loathe to permit others into. It's sort of like how we Americans love denying our own immigrant origins while railing against immigration.”

“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.”

“Writing is sharing. You share what you have. Great writers have more to share”

“Even during the most solitary of creative missions, we are never alone. As we learn to trust the value of our own inner threads, we also start to understand that it’s not just the threads within us that are gold, so too are those within each person on the face of the earth. We also come to know, whether we at first understand it or not, that all our threads are part of the same interconnected story.”

“When we find people who are willing to talk about their own journeys of feeling called, of navigating their messy closets of pain and potential, of discovering their own creative sparks, suddenly we realize that our creative adventure is not a journey for one, but for One. This realization can be incredibly healing, not just for each of us personally, but also for the world.”

“How do you feel when you read stuff written by dead authors? A visit by a ghost?”

“A writer is never alone, he is always with himself”

“I write in order to live and I live in order to write, and I've come close to imagining that writing and living might merge completely: I would live in the company of dictionaries, deep in some provincial retreat, in the mornings I would go for a walk in the woods, in the afternoons I would blacken a few sheets of paper, in the evenings I would relax perhaps by listening to a bit of music.”

“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’s 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”

“The power of a writer is that he is a god of sorts. He can create his own worlds and populate them with his own people, all by the powers of his imagination. It's the closest a man can come close to the gods. No wonder the most successful writers are considered immortals”