I can't compose or play music; I'm not that fortunate. But I can write and I can talk and sometimes when I'm doing either of these things I realize that I've written a sentence or uttered a thought that I didn't absolutely know I had in me... until I saw it on the page or heard myself say it.
Nothing quite has reality for me till I write it all down--revising and embellishing as I go. I'm always waiting for things to be over so I can get home and commit them to paper.
People like me write because otherwise we are pretty inarticulate. Our articulation is our writing.
I'm not singing anymore; that is why I am so pleased to be writing. My daughter said, "You just found a different way of using your voice."
I can recapture everything when I write, my thoughts, my ideals and my fantasies.
I've always been able to write. I've always been able to put a good essay in or say whatever I wanted to say through the pen. That was a gift of mine. I feel like it was what I was meant to do.
You write because you don't talk very well, and maybe one of the reasons that I was determined to write was that I wasn't an orator, unlike my mother and my grandfather, who both spoke beautifully and spoke all the time. Maybe I grew up with too many voices around me, as a matter of fact.
This is what I find encouraging about the writing trades: ... They allow lunatics to seem saner than sane.
To sing a song is quite different than to write a poem. I'm not and never will be a novelist, but to write a novel is not the same thing as writing a play. There is a difference in form, but essentially what you're after is the same thing.
I've been writing articles for newspapers and magazines. And writing is a very beautiful way of expression.
I have done most of my talking by post of late years--as people shut up in dungeons take up with scrawling mottoes on the walls.
I gasp, because Isn't that just exactly what I've been doing too: writing poems and scattering them to the winds with the same hope as Gram that someone, someday, somewhere might understand who I am, who my sister was, and what happened to us.
everyone who is human has something to express. Try not expressing yourself for twenty-four hours and see what happens. You will nearly burst. You will want to write a long letter, or draw a picture, or sing, or make a dress or a garden.
Writing is how I communicate my deepest beliefs, and what I hope are helpful observations about our dual citizenship, as children of God, as regular old mixed-up, worried, flawed, precious human beings.
My work is my way of expressing myself without being arrested.
writing is how I understand everything that happens. Writing is the only way I know to move on.
It is only through the confining act of writing that the immensity of the nonwritten becomes legible
It is a singular reaction, this sitting still and writing, writing, writing, or ruminating at length, which is much the same, really.
He was a writer and words were his weapons.
