Write.
Write more.
Write even more.
Write even more than that.
Write when you don’t want to.
Write when you do.
Write when you have something to say.
Write when you don’t.
Write every day.
Keep writing.
10 Steps to Becoming a Better Writer, Brian Clark (via hereunoia)
Write more.
Write even more.
Write even more than that.
Write when you don’t want to.
Write when you do.
Write when you have something to say.
Write when you don’t.
Write every day.
Keep writing.
10 Steps to Becoming a Better Writer, Brian Clark (via hereunoia)
(Source: writingsforwinter, via hereunoia)
thanks to harold and maude for pulling me out of this dim and dull hole that I’d found myself in. the perspective on life can be like a play of cards in our hands, and such thing confuses me still. it’s strange thinking about time and and how you fill it and the way you think among every single step. is it frightening or full-filling?
I haven’t written properly in ages it seems, haven’t taken enough photos and scratched along the surface all of the time, seemingly. now how is that a bad thing? it’s merely one if I make it up to be. if there’s one thing that I adore, it is the freedom of choice.
I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.
Sylvia Plath (via setbabiesonfire)
Sylvia Plath (via setbabiesonfire)
(Source: inskii, via visual-or-gasm)
Each time I’m asked to tell about myself, I find myself starting the same way: “My name is Kelsey and I’m nineteen..”
but what I’d really like to say is:
“My name means island of the ships but once
I found a translation that said I’m a burning shipwreck-
not a burning ship but a ship that has caught fire
after the wreckage and well, I’d say that’s more fitting.”
I’ve learned that people don’t have time for about me’s.
They need two things: a name and an indication you’re someone special.
The doctors, they want facts not details.
“I broke my leg when I was three, it’s a funny story actually-“
The right or the left?
Conversation over.
The teachers, they want interests, hobbies.
You’re sad, yes, but what do you like to do?
The adults are a spew of questions.
What school do you go to? What classes are you taking?
What do you plan on becoming? Got a boyfriend?
No, stop.
People my own age are the worst.
“I’m planning on an English degree with a concentration in creative writing.”
Yeah, aren’t we all. So how many times have you, you know,
done it?
I’m pulled apart, my interests travelling highway 2
my goals at a stop light at traffic hour,
my medical history on a billboard for the world to see.
But what about me?
Where’s the chance to say,
“I hang on to fistfuls of poetry like loose change in my pockets,
and I keep waiting for the day that the world turns upside down
so I can swim with the stars.
I’m not afraid of darkness, it’s a loneliness I can empathize with it.
It’s the blackholes like cigarette burns inside of me that get troublesome.
I walk through graveyards and read the dashes between years,
each a story I’ll never know. Sometimes I create my own.”
No one, none of us know who we are anymore.
Kelsey Danielle, “I Was Told to Write and About Me and This is What Happened” (via ignify)
(via wearelost)
my mind is just all over the place lately. i can’t form a coherent thought. when i think about writing, my brain goes to mush. i’ve been getting headaches a lot lately. they are like muted earthquakes.
