Forgiveness.

The ability to forgive oneself. Stop here for a few breaths and think about this, because it is the key to making art and very possibly the key to finding any semblance of happiness in life. Every time I have set out to translate the book (or story, or hopelessly long essay) that exists in such brilliant detail on the big screen of my limbic system onto a piece of paper (which, let’s face it, was once a towering tree crowned with leaves and a home to birds), I grieve for my own lack of talent and intelligence. Every. Single. Time. Were I smarter, more gifted, I could pin down a closer facsimile of the wonders I see. I believe that, more than anything else, this grief of constantly having to face down our own inadequacies is what keeps people from being writers. Forgiveness, therefore, is key. I can’t write the book I want to write, but I can and will write the book I am capable of writing. Again and again throughout the course of my life I will forgive myself.

In her beautiful meditation on the writing life, Ann Patchett adds to our ongoing archive of wisdom on writing. Pair with Patchett’s advice to graduates on writing and life. (via explore-blog)
Creating a life that reflects your values and satisfies your soul is a rare achievement. In a culture that relentlessly promotes avarice and excess as the good life, a person happy doing his own work is usually considered an eccentric, if not a subversive. Ambition is only understood if it’s to rise to the top of some imaginary ladder of success. Someone who takes an undemanding job because it affords him the time to pursue other interests and activities is considered a flake. A person who abandons a career in order to stay home and raise children is considered not to be living up to his potential — as if a job title and salary are the sole measure of human worth.You’ll be told in a hundred ways, some subtle and some not, to keep climbing, and never be satisfied with where you are, who you are, and what you’re doing. There are a million ways to sell yourself out, and I guarantee you’ll hear about them.To invent your own life’s meaning is not easy, but it’s still allowed, and I think you’ll be happier for the trouble.
Bill Watterson  (via crocket)

(via cocoku)

IN MY HANDS

notionalmess:

I am climbing a wall
grasping grass and rock
that comes apart in my hands;
I’ve been here before,

and thudding in my ear
like another heart
is this fear of falling.
I used to be full of words.

Now all I have in my hands
are precarious levers
and rusty nails that hold
me together. Do not ask me how I am—

I am a broken device.
No answer will suffice.

by Christine Fojas, an attempt at a sonnet

kirschtein-sexual:

(Go on FF.net or AO3 for about 5 minutes and:)EVERYBODY PLEASE I CHALLENGE YOU NOT TO GET A BINGO

kirschtein-sexual:

(Go on FF.net or AO3 for about 5 minutes and:)

EVERYBODY PLEASE I CHALLENGE YOU NOT TO GET A BINGO

(via adora88loodthirsty)

Motherfuckers will read a book that’s 1/3 elvish, but put two sentences in Spanish and White people think we’re taking over.
Junot Diaz to the interview question “Do you think using Spanish in your writing alienates some of your readers?” (via spoopyzourry)

(via prufrocking)

mymodernmet:

These spectacular photographs reveal the amazingly tiny details of the life of snails. Using a macro approach, Ukrainian photographer Vyacheslav Mishchenko gets up close and personal to capture a variety of miniature landscapes as the little creatures go about their daily lives. With great patience and a steady hand, the artist obtains crisp, sharp details that seem unbelievable when viewers consider how small the scenes really are in comparison to our everyday surroundings.

Perhaps you can write better if you leave the mistakes.
Jorge Luis Borges (via theparisreview)

notionalmess:

the trees are clipped
and boxed. the birds die out.

and we—who are clipped
and boxed ourselves—we
have already scorned the world
outside our barred windows
for the worlds we have made

a world of restarts,
and without entropy, a virtual
canopy that shields us
from the sun’s piercing truths.

even grief fades away
like another dream
in the chain-of-dreams
that screens my waking day.

—lines from “Even Grief" by Christine Fojas

meanwhile the alarm is ringing

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