“Don’t you have something more important to be doing than harassing me with your inane theories?”

“Ugh, forget it. I don’t know why I thought you would help me.”

I knew in our first lovestruck hue

that I’d break my heart on you.

-you are worth every tear.

D. Elizabeth

Another addition for Love Letters I Never Sent 🖤

“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies, said Jojen. The man who never reads lives only one.” ― George R.R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons

Writers: It’s Okay to Experiment and Be Weird As Fuck

With so much writing advice out there telling you what to do and not do, it can be easy to forget that writing is an art, and there are no rules in art.

Yes, learning about different writing techniques is great. Developing a language to talk and think about writing is important. Absorb everything you can. Reading, studying, and practicing are integral to improving your writing. Obviously, I run a writing blog, so I believe in the power of increasing your knowledge about writing and literature.

But don’t forget that, in the end, you can do whatever the hell you want to. Experiment. Have fun. Play. Follow your instincts. Break the “rules.” And don’t listen to anyone who says that no one wants to read weird, nontraditional writing. They do.

For most of my writing life, I’ve kept my crazy, experimental stories hidden away, because it seemed like anything I wrote that wasn’t a straightforward, traditionally-structured story with a main character and a plot wasn’t appreciated by readers. But guess what? One of my weird-as-fuck stories won second prize in a contest this fall, and when I asked the editors why they chose it, they said they liked it because it wasn’t like every other story in the submissions pile. It was different. It was weird. It took a risk. And for that reason it stood out from everything else they read.

It took me years to quiet the chorus of conformity and embrace my weird side. Don’t let that happen to you. Get wild. Write whatever you want. Do it now. We need freaks like you, or we’re all going to whither and die of boredom. Give us everything you’ve got. We need it. We need YOU.

Presented without comment.

EXCEPT to say- commonplacecaz.

This is beautiful and need to be posted on my fridge.

Deep Water Prompt #616

“Is this too much blood to bring in my carry on?”

When You Hate Your Novel

Anonymous asked: “Hi Lizard! I have a huge problem: in the middle of my first draft I’ve realized that there are parts of my story I don’t feel passionate about, or just don’t work, and I would need to go back and change it all and start over again. The point is that I feel like a failure leaving the first draft unfinished and starting from scratch. What should I do?”

So it’s kind of a funny thing. This morning a friend of mine asked me if she should put aside her novel to work on another one. It’s never an easy decision to put a novel aside for later, but in this case we talked it out. 

Keep reading

All it takes is one spark to get your story going.

* tasting raindrops under fallen shadows *

I want to taste the raindrops and sing under the moon I want to feel the sunlight upon my face, as I dance in the ocean waves I want to count the stars as cool weather dew tickles strands of my hair I want to close my eyes and breathe in the midnight air I want to live today, as if tomorrow may never come and allow every shadow to crumble and fall one by one

© 2017 SacredBreaths. All rights reserved Pic credit - travelandleisure

Cozy corner

Apocalypse.

I met a guy, who could not die, He said his life was not his own, To leave behind, a hurting mind, Grieving over dust and bone. I met a lady, dark and shady, She said her life was dull and drear, She said her child, was running wild, Because for her, she was not there. I met a tramp, he was cold and damp, As he trudged beneath a midnight sky, He said the dead, spoke in his head, While the living, silent,  passed him by. I met a nun, all bleak and glum, She said she had to run away, All dressed in black, she n’er looked back, And the Gargoyles frowned in dark dismay. I met  a wounded Christ, on a secret tryst, As he dragged his cross across the sands, And the blood poured red from his thorn-pierced head, And gushed freely from his feet and hands. I met Old Nick, on a crooked stick, He said he n’er more wished to sin, And the warrior’s blood, in which he stood, Was from a war, no side could win. I met a Friar, atop a spire, They wind blew hard through his tattered robes, He had donned his shroud, on a nuclear cloud, And his halo was the lightning’s strobes. I met a miser ( he was non the wiser ), As he gathered up his golden hoard, Little knowing ( where he was going ), They did not charge for bed and board.   I met an angler, and a cowboy wrangler, As they ate a meal of fish and beef, The wrangler roped, on a hilly slope, And the angler fished from a rocky reef. I met a child, unkempt and wild, As he swung upon a creaking swing, Though of tender years, he wept blood for tears, And he n’er would hear the morning sing. Into a mirror, I looked in terror, And I saw my whole life flashing past, I had seen the world, all smudged and blurred, And the ghosts  I’d seen, would be my last. T’is hard to try, and reason why, Our lives are torn and flaked with rust, Our hopes and dreams, life-bearing streams, Our fields all blown away in dust. Ambrose Harte Scattered Thoughts 

- D @imnotsleeping76