A book ought to be an ice pick to break up the frozen sea within us. – Franz Kafka
There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic. — Diane Setterfield
You must find your own quiet center of life, and write from that to the world. — Sarah Orne Jewett
When people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong. — Neil Gaiman
Be courageous and try to write in a way that scares you a little. –Holly Gerth
The best way is to stop when you are going good, and when you know what will happen next. If you do that every day when you are writing a novel you will never be stuck. That is the most important thing I can tell you so try to remember it. — Ernest Hemingway
Begin in the middle of a scene or event. Keep pushing forward rather than stopping to inform the reader of background details. KNown as beginning in medias res, in the middle of things, this opening supplies a quick start to your story. — Jack Hefferon
Write what you know. Write what you want to know more about. Write what you’re afraid to write about. — Cec Murphy
Everything we learn to write is a stepping stone for the next level of conversation we are capable of having with ourselves. — Christina Baldwin
Talent is helpful in writing, but guts are absolutely necessary. — Jessamyn West,
Jessamyn wrote probably the most accurate piece of information in this quote. Not just for writing but for anything that requires effort. Talent will only get you so far but guts will extend that reach.
So Cold
The morning chill nipped and bit furiously into Roy’s hoarse hands. He kept his hands busy to reach that soothing place in his mind. His fingers danced along and over the frigid buttons on his shearling coat, as he stared hard at his mark. His finger caught along one of the coin sized buttons and he proceeded to roll it between his thumb and index finger .He was a collector, not of buttons but of dept…And like always, someone was neglecting their payments. When on the job the coat wore him, it molded his mind and made his unpleasant tasks no more than a house hold chore. He was devoid of emotions just like the buttons were devoid of color or character. Cold, unyielding, and rugged .They weren’t pretty they were there to get the job done without fail.
Again he rapped his hands against the sickly pale and peeling paint of the door. Still no answer; but that was fine. Roy was a patient man he could wait. Because when he was called for that meant that no was not an answer, giving up was not an answer, running was not an answer. Violence was the gold standard, it guaranteed results. It spoke a universal language and transcended thoughts and beliefs. But the most important rule was that ignorance was accepted because if someone else didn’t accept this golden standard then another would.
Roy brought his hand to the door again. This time he heard movement shifting on the opposite side of the door and a fumbling for the handle. Roy rolled his sleeves, pulled his coat further up his torso and snug to his frame. Meticulously with practiced precision he removed from his jacket pocket his gloves. The slick leather clung to his bulky hands leaving no excess space.
The door lazily creaked open and it was time for Roy to collect.
Writing 12, 2-2 