1) everything that’s already in the world when you’re born is just normal;
2) anything that gets invented between then and before you turn thirty is incredibly exciting and creative and with any luck you can make a career out of it;
3) anything that gets invented after you’re thirty is against the natural order of things and the beginning of the end of civilisation as we know it until it’s been around for about ten years when it gradually turns out to be alright really.” —Douglas Adams (via putitperfectly)
Ever go on a date with somebody and think “Well, hey, she’s cute, funny, I’ll give this thing a whirl, why not?” You’re kind of into it, but not totally overwhelmed yet?
And then three dates later you realize you’re completely hooked?
Yeah, my writing group’s like that.
I know it’s good to keep plugging away, but three scenes in a row that need to be scrapped?
Joseph Finder has an old-school solution to help him stay focused when he’s writing. Check it out: http://www.facebook.com/josephfinder
I just realized what it is that makes Hemingway so distinctive: he always sounds like he’s telling you a dream he’s had.
The sparsity of his description leaves a lot of room for the reader to imagine the rest, which makes the experience all the richer.
It’s as though he describes only that which is symbolically important, and you’re on your own for the other stuff.
When I was 21, I traveled around Europe with a flute strapped to my backpack. A Dutch family told me that a career in music was a splendid idea, because, in their words “Even when there is no food and there is no eat, if there is music, the people will dance.”
Or as Barbara Ehrenreich said in “Nickel and Dimed,” her book about taking a whack at trying to live on minimum wage (spoiler: you can’t):
“On account of the heat, there are still a few actual bathers on the beach, but I am content to sit in shorts and a t-shirt and watch the ocean pummel the sand. When the sun goes down I walk back into the town to find my car and am amazed to hear a sound I associate with cities like New York and Berlin. There’s a couple Peruvian musicians playing in the little grassy island in the street near the pier, and maybe fifty people - locals and vacationers - have gathered around, offering their bland end-of-summer faces to the sound. I edge my way through the crowd and find a seat where I can see the musicians up close - the beautiful young guitarist and the taller man playing the flute. What are they doing in this rinky-dink blue-collar resort, and what does the audience make of this surprise visit from the dark-skinned South? The melody the flute lays out over the percussion is both utterly strange and completely familiar, as if it had been imprinted in the minds of my own peasant ancestors centuries ago and forgotten until this very moment. Every-one else seems to be as transfixed as I am. The musicians wink and smile at each other as they play, and I see then that they are the secret emissaries of a worldwide lower-class conspiracy to snatch joy out of degradation and filth. When the song ends, I give them a dollar, the equivalent of about ten minutes of sweat.”