Tell a Story
from 365 Affirmations for the Writer
February 16
Writing as a
Spiritual Process
Writing is a kind of meditation, a spiritual activity by which
my soul is nourished.
― Jane Hertenstein
February 17
Writing as a
Spiritual Process
If writers write not just with paper and ink or a word
processor but with their own life’s blood, then I think something like [our own
words being just as much to us as from us] is perhaps always
the case. A book you write out of the depths of who you are, like a dream you
dream out of those same depths, is entirely your own creation.
—Frederick Buechner, theologian and novelist, from Telling Secrets
Write a blog post or journal entry as if it were a prayer, tossed out into the universe.
February 18
Taking Risks
Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and
living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning.
You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You
are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it
happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes
near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all
around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many
as you could.
― Louise
Erdrich, from The Painted Drum
February 19
Writers in Action
There can be no great art, according to the poet Coleridge,
without a certain strangeness. There come moments in every great novel when we
are startled by some development that is at once perfectly fitting and completely
unexpected—yet earned, those moments when the ordinary becomes extraordinary,
the common is transcended.
One has to be crazy to write a novel, capable of allowing
the darkest, most ancient and shrewd parts to take over the work from time to
time, capable of cracking the door open, invite in the craziness, strangeness
in fiction cannot be faked.
A pathological wound is also helpful, some fatal childhood
accident for which they feel responsible; shame and guilt are also driving
forces, the feeling of never being quite good enough. Often one finds novelists
are people who learned in childhood to turn, in times of distress, to their own
fantasies or to fiction, the voice of some comforting writer, not to human
beings near at hand.
― adapted from John Gardner,
from On Becoming a Novelist
Memoir is one way a writer can flush out a wound. Sort of like Where the Wild Things Are. Max was sent to bed without any supper and in the process of settling down his fantasies took over. Perhaps the best way to get over a slight or perceived injustice or the worst thing that has ever happened to you—is to write about it.
February 20
Books
― R. L. Stine, author of Goosebumps series
February 21
Tell a Story
Tell the readers a story! Because without a story, you are
merely using words to prove you can string them together in logical sentences.
― Anne McCaffrey, Irish-American science fiction writer
February 22
Tell a Story
Let the world burn through you. Throw the prism light, white
hot, on paper.
— Ray Bradbury,
from Zen in the Art of Writing
February 23
Tell a Story
Life with its rules, its obligations, and its freedoms, is like a
sonnet: You’re given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself.”—
Madeleine L’Engle, Mrs. Whatsit from A
Wrinkle in Time
February 24
Tell a Story
The objective of fiction isn’t grammatical
correctness but to make the reader welcome and then tell a story …to make
him/her forget, whenever possible, that he/she is reading a story at all.
— Stephen King, from On Writing
February 25
Tell a Story
I have been successful probably because I have always
realized that I knew nothing about writing and have merely tried to tell an
interesting story entertainingly.
— Edgar Rice Burroughs
February 26
Tell a Story
If you can tell stories, create characters, devise
incidents, and have sincerity and passion, it doesn’t matter a damn how you
write.
—
Write like how you talk. Talk as if you are around the water cooler at
work. Tell me a story that begins with, One time . . .
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