Water Serpents I, Gustav Klimt (Detail, c. 1904-07)

(Source: descroissants)

Writing lesson learned today:

If you had a whole plan, and then suddenly it doesn’t really work like you wanted it to anymore, and you pull at your hair to try and figure out how to make it work, and you cling and cling and cling, and it makes you very anxious, then at one point you just have to let go. Change the plan, cut it short, make it longer, whatever. Just let it go.

I feel so much better now.

it would be SUPER flattering, thank you very much :)

Um, right now I just live in a tiny apartment with very little space. One day I would love to have my own little stood-office though, somewhere.

For now, I write sitting at the little breakfast table in my kitchen with the windows open. Sometimes I switch it up and write in the living room or in bed (beside the bathroom, these are the only rooms in the apartment so…).
I often do it with soft music on, or either with just the humming of the refrigerator for company.  

valscrapbook:

Le Brocquy, Louis (1916-2012) - 1940 Study for a Picnic

How can I love academia so much, and respect it, and dream about it, and love every story that has some in it, get so excited about it, but not want to be a part of it, though I wish I did.
I would be a terrible academic.  

I don’t have plans. I don’t really make plans.

I hope I’ll be doing things that I like, and have my life in better order than it is now.

I want - well more hope really, because it’s out of my hands - to move to Ireland (or the UK) in a couple of years. That’s it really.

yes, I very much think so.

I’m still waiting for the day, though, where she’ll realize that she’s too good and brilliant for being my friend :)

clavicola:

These are Frank Hurley’s famous early colour photographs of Sir Ernest Shackleton’s ill-fated ‘Endurance’ voyage, as part of the British Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition, 1914-1917. Hurley was the official photographer on the expedition.

Early in 1915, their ship ‘Endurance’ became inexorably trapped in the Antarctic ice. Hurley managed to salvage the photographic plates by diving into mushy ice-water inside the sinking ship in October 1915.

- State Library of New South Wales
(via: Colour photographs of Shackleton’s Antarctica, 1914)

the first thing that popped into my head was ‘Untitled’, but I have no idea if a book is titled ‘Untitled’

Um, I don’t know. I suck so much at titles, you have no idea, it’s like a special skill of mine, to come up with crappy, cliché, absolutely horrible titles. 

Oh oh, I remember, when I worked in a bookstore there were those two romance novels (romance novels have the best titles, hands down) one was A Knight to Remember (get it? Get it?) and the other was Mr. Cavendish, I Presume. BEST EVER.

(Source: cervine)

Writing questions, BEST.

Well, I have a hard time, it seems, writing more than one thing at a time, BUT I do have some projects in the works. 

i. my teenage angst fic
ii. working on an outline for my dragon apocalypse fic
iii. have 2-3 other ideas for other fics that I’m trying to see what I can do with

iv. my Georgia/Rose original short story
v. I also want to re-write parts of the short story I wrote last Christmas, so I can share it this year.
vi. random bits and pieces for epistolary-ships.

Magnum Opus: I DON’T KNOW

Sometimes I think I want to write a nice magical-realism type of story. Sometimes, I think I could just write a really cool YA series, maybe one day I would love to write a children’s book and do the illustrations, though that’s unlikely, but you never know. I’m not quite sure. All my ideas right now, are for short stories, and I’m not sure I’m great at world-building, so I have to maybe focus on that first. 

(Source: failuries)

I hate it when they recite Shakespeare and Yeats
and Frost and Wilde in sure voices, clear, bright with round hateful vowels.

I hate it when they expunge on the symbolism
of a sentence that starts with ‘and’ and shifts into bleuish bruises to finish
with a contraction that doesn’t make sense.

I hate it when they bury their noses into paper, and pretend that the smell
of ink, of dead trees and graphite is the height
of all things holy.

I hate it when they argue that they know, of course they know, what dead artists and dead poets dead singers dead writers dead bodies meant
when their eyelashes were falling and their tongues were licking,
the lungs expanding in their chest, somewhere close to breathing.

I hate it when they play word games to see who knows more Latin, who
can decipher Chaucer without breaking a sweat.

I hate their stone walls, and their libraries, their percolated camaderie.

And I hate even more not knowing
what it feels like to understand the words of the dead
that can’t
 

anneyhall:

“Life is intrinsically, well, boring and dangerous at the same time. At any given moment the floor may open up. Of course, it almost never does; that’s what makes it so boring.”

Edward Gorey

aseaofquotes:

Lisa Schroeder, The Day Before

(Source: aseaofquotes)