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The Writing Lifeexpand_moreLove is the difference between a full life and an empty one.
I’m a big fan of then. A novel needs a lot of thens.
Love is not something you wait for passively, but a practice.
Don’t write what you know. Write what you can imagine.
Try never to repeat rhymes, not once in an entire show. It tires the ear.
Some goals: stop buying jeans. Stop being angry at mom/dad/sister.
The women wanted signs of regret, but she was straight shouldered.
Having a sister or a friend is like sitting at night in a lighted house.
I do not intend in these pages to put in a plea for this little novel.
That, indeed, is very nearly the whole of the higher artistic process.
I don’t need to consult a healer to feel the aura glowing around us.
The men here don’t know where to place me, call me exotic grail.
Our culture cherishes a fantasy of a certain writerly existence.
If it were fiction, calling the place Newtown would be too much.
Rise the Euphrates, my first novel, grew out of a feverish dream.
The lock surrendered, after a short struggle, to the poker.
We have mysterious inclinations. No one can explain it to us.
What better place to write the great American novel than North Africa?
The ego with which we began filters away as love accumulates below.
That there are five sturdy red Gerber daisies in a jar on the table.
The woman who is known only through a man is known wrong.
Eavan’s death was catastrophic, leaving us all wanting more.
These are notes that please the great heart of man.
The letter both pleased and disturbed her. Why did he get in touch?
Merwin discovered and restored eighteen acres of abandoned land.
His thoughts are never far from the erotic as he roams around Dublin.
Amusement is one thing; enjoyment of art is another.
In the rooms you picked up what you liked, like shells on a beach.
