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Nov. 5th, 2007
Yes! Perfect!
Nov. 5th, 2007 07:48 amOh My Heavens! This was heaven sent once again.
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kris_reisz posted a great blog from Philip Pullman about how to write a book. And the Kris proceeded to write about how he doesn't outline either and I sighed with relief.
Every year people talk about outlining their NaNo and I've never, ever been able to outline so I got worried that once again I was doing it wrong. It doesn't feel wrong when I just write so I've always just done it but sometimes, for instance around the 10k count which I hit yesterday amid the bustle of Panera, I think that maybe it could be easier if I outlined.
I couldn't do it in junior high. I'm not going to do it now.
*grins*
Edit... On second thought, I do sort of outline. About a day ahead. For instance, today I'm going to write about Triss and her obsession with Taylor's eyes. I've known about that since yesterday. Today sometime I'll figure out what I'm writing tomorrow. And so on. And so forth.
kris_reisz posted a great blog from Philip Pullman about how to write a book. And the Kris proceeded to write about how he doesn't outline either and I sighed with relief.Every year people talk about outlining their NaNo and I've never, ever been able to outline so I got worried that once again I was doing it wrong. It doesn't feel wrong when I just write so I've always just done it but sometimes, for instance around the 10k count which I hit yesterday amid the bustle of Panera, I think that maybe it could be easier if I outlined.
I couldn't do it in junior high. I'm not going to do it now.
*grins*
Edit... On second thought, I do sort of outline. About a day ahead. For instance, today I'm going to write about Triss and her obsession with Taylor's eyes. I've known about that since yesterday. Today sometime I'll figure out what I'm writing tomorrow. And so on. And so forth.
A good quote
Nov. 5th, 2007 09:18 pmFrom The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield
People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.
As one tends the graves of the dead, so I tend the books. I clean them, do minor repairs, keep them in good order. And every day I open a volume or two, read a few lines or pages, allow the voices of the forgotten dead to resonate inside my head. Do they sense it, these dead writers, when their books are read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs? I do hope so. For it must be very lonely being dead.
People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.
As one tends the graves of the dead, so I tend the books. I clean them, do minor repairs, keep them in good order. And every day I open a volume or two, read a few lines or pages, allow the voices of the forgotten dead to resonate inside my head. Do they sense it, these dead writers, when their books are read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs? I do hope so. For it must be very lonely being dead.