"A good piece of fiction, in my view, does not offer solutions. Good stories deal with our moral struggles, our uncertainties, our dreams, our blunders, our contradictions, our endless quest for understanding. Good stories do not resolve the mysteries of the human spirit but rather describe and expand up on those mysteries."

~

Tim O’Brien 

Another reason to love your words, Tim. Thank you.

If writers are not looking to “expand up on those mysteries,” then they are forging pure optimism or pessimism, which are simply not the lenses to view anything truly worth writing about.

(Source: writersrelief)

18 December 2013 ·

madewithpaper:

So, we meet again.
Made With Paper by doinkmagasin

…said every one of my students like 10 times a day. #donstopwriting #oryougetanF

madewithpaper:

So, we meet again.

Made With Paper by doinkmagasin

…said every one of my students like 10 times a day. #donstopwriting #oryougetanF

21 November 2013 ·

Love this so much. Too many people want to be part of a storm, but no one wants to get wet. They want to cause the storm, not live in it.

Love this so much. Too many people want to be part of a storm, but no one wants to get wet. They want to cause the storm, not live in it.

(Source: icanread)

17 November 2013 ·

(Source: amandaonwriting, via writersbloqinc)

17 November 2013 ·

Perhaps it’s because I’m having Breaking Bad withdrawals, but I immediately thought of Walter White while reading this.
Thank you, Vince Gilligan, for the characterization ride of a TV-viewing lifetime.

Perhaps it’s because I’m having Breaking Bad withdrawals, but I immediately thought of Walter White while reading this.

Thank you, Vince Gilligan, for the characterization ride of a TV-viewing lifetime.

(Source: aseaofquotes, via writersbloqinc)

12 October 2013 ·

He doesn’t always stop for water, but when he does, it’s for 1.2 seconds.  (at Governor’s Ranch)

He doesn’t always stop for water, but when he does, it’s for 1.2 seconds. (at Governor’s Ranch)

20 May 2013 ·

Early morning wandering.  (at Divide, CO)

Early morning wandering. (at Divide, CO)

19 May 2013 ·

insolacion:

Charles Glatzer

Well this is simply breathtaking. With photos like this, I so often wonder how much time the photographer took waiting for this shot, and how many shots of this bear weren’t used or that led to this perfect one. When you try to imagine the demand of immediate, unconditional, professionalism while gazing at an image, it’s a small taste of that person’s artistry coming to life, almost as if you get to hold your breath along with the photographer.

insolacion:

Charles Glatzer

Well this is simply breathtaking. With photos like this, I so often wonder how much time the photographer took waiting for this shot, and how many shots of this bear weren’t used or that led to this perfect one. When you try to imagine the demand of immediate, unconditional, professionalism while gazing at an image, it’s a small taste of that person’s artistry coming to life, almost as if you get to hold your breath along with the photographer.

6 May 2013 ·

"Mamihlapinatapai" - a fiction short

Mamihlapinatapai

            I want to cup her articulation of the word in my hands and place it in my pocket. She scribbles the definition on a coffee-stained napkin, presses the corner, spins it around and bites the end of her pen, indicating my input with a nod.

            Blue words shape to the top of a flowering coffee blotch, and again, I see a trait of hers sketched in commonplace, this time her trademark eye shadow adorning a hazel iris.  

            A look shared by two people, each wishing that the other suggest something they both desire but are unwilling to initiate themselves.

            She tells me how the word comes from the lost Yaghan language of Tierra Del Fuego and continues on about its profound concision.

            I can’t concentrate. The waters of romanticism are simply too inviting, just high enough to wade comfortably. I will keep the napkin un-creased until the day my nerve, evolved to the point of adaptation, will no longer be the excuse but the cause of what I’ve incurred. I will hand over the napkin, explaining how long overdue my words are and how I could no longer keep them swallowed, and she will wear the smile she’s wearing now, and she will be uncharacteristically speechless with foreseen affection shattering a glass cage of what-ifs.   

            “Wanna know why I love that word?” she says, leaning over the table. Her eyes are sure to elicit all of me if I don’t look away.

            I link my hands, look to the napkin and feign a witty insight. “It’s—fun to say.”

            She leans even closer.

            “It means we’re not alone.”

            “You and me?”         

            “No, everyone.” She pulls away and sighs, and I want to pinch her lips to preserve the buoyancy of her words, to make her feel as though her breaths are not wasted. Sometimes I try so hard to understand her it hurts.

            “Right,” I say, “because—if there is everyone, then—then how can anyone really be alone?” I have no idea what I’m talking about, but it gets her to lean forward again.

            “Yes,” she says. “Even if that word exists in some far off place in some dead language we don’t understand, it means that people everywhere can understand anyone anywhere.” She cups her fingers around her mug and stares out the café window into the rain. “We just choose not to.”

            I wait to nod until she looks back at me. “Even you and me?”

            “We’re part of everyone.”

            “You’re not everyone,” I say. “You’re different,” and I’m surprised at my own words, wondering, like I so often do, if they too clearly reveal my wants.

            “And what’s that supposed to mean?” she says, a playful tilt to her head. She knows what it means. And she knows that I know that she knows what it means—maybe.

            I have built my confidence with moments like this, collected each and every encounter as material for construction. But it seems I can’t build enough.

            So I say, “You always just get it,” aware I’ve only torn a scrap from the truth, refining self-delusion with dull banalities incapable of sculpting me into a man of charm.   

            “What’s it?” she says.

            I re-read the definition on the napkin: A look shared by two people, each wishing that the other suggest something they both desire but are unwilling to initiate themselves.

            Since the first time I saw her, I have wanted to believe that her eyes, looking into mine, have been waiting for me to initiate a mutual desire.     

            This is our shared look, I want to say. It is you and me. How you’re looking at me now. How I’ve always looked at you.

            “Come on, what do you mean?” she says.

            But I’ve never been one to say the unsaid, so I tell her, “I don’t know.”

            She smiles, takes a sip, stares back into the rain.

            

5 May 2013 ·

"I cannot remember the books I’ve read any more than the meals I have eaten […] even so, they have made me."

~

Ralph Waldo Emerson  (via writersbloqinc)

This is so lovely, honest, and human. Coming from someone who teaches high schoolers, I think this quotation could be used for teaching students why we read. It’s experiential, like remembering a really good day, or something about someone that’s gone, or something about how it felt when a realization made you feel new. We tend to test students on the tiny details as if that’s how our brains work. No. We remember the details that matter to us individually. And that’s what matters. Even if a student believes a story to mean nothing and have no impact, that is still a valuable revelation, for they are still made by the things they don’t believe they ought to be. 

5 May 2013 ·

About Me

Writer. Reader. Teacher. Lover of words and their ability to extract meaning from the world.

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