Archive for the “thoughts” Category

There are so many things that are scary about being a writer. I pride myself on having a tough skin when it comes to criticism about my work, but it’s still hard when people peek into your proverbial stroller and say “gee, that baby’s ugly.”

Writers agree that even a hundred positive comments have a hard time blotting out the one negative one.

So, most of the time, it’s like this:


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Anyone who says they have only one life to live must not know how to read a book.

–Author Unknown

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Do I choose the less difficult path even when it’s not best?

The easy sentence instead of the perfect one?

“Having my children was the best thing I did for many reasons, including that it taught me to write a single, perfect sentence. Having a big family forced me to make every second of my writing time count. It taught me to write spare and taut, to write each word as if it were special, precious, to write a sentence that nobody else in the world had written.”  –Martine Leavitt

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Anne Bradstreet was born March 20, 1612, in Northampton, England–yet she and I are sisters. So many years later, I feel just as she did.

Anne Bradstreet (2)

Here is her poem: The Author To Her Book

Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did’st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad expos’d to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I wash’d thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i’ th’ house I find.
In this array, ‘mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.
In Critics’ hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus’d her thus to send thee out of door.


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Jonathan Swift: “May you live all the days of your life.”

Jon Foreman: “I want to thrive, not just survive.”


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“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.”

– Albert Camus

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Somehow I need to regain my burn to write.

No one can do this for me. I need to do it for myself. As shown.

credit: bent objects

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I’m trying to learn how to keep people’s noses where they belong–in a great book. How can I make my book so interesting, my readers won’t feel like sniffing around for something else?


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