Writers! You must give yourself permission, by a daily act of will, to believe in your remembered truth. Do not remain nameless to yourself. Only you can turn on the switch; nobody is going to do it for you. Nobody gave George Gershwin permission to write “Rhapsody in Blue” at the age of 25, when he had only written 32-bar popular songs. Nobody gave Frank Lloyd Wright permission to design a round museum.
— William Zinsser, The Writer Who Stayed, p. 161
I belong to the community of the written word in several ways. First, books have taught me most of what I know, and they have trained my attention and my imagination. Second, they gave me a sense of the possible, which is the great service — and too often, when it is ungenerous, the great disservice — a community performs for its members. Third, they embodied richness and refinement of language, and the artful use of language in the service of the imagination. Fourth, they gave me and still give me courage. Sometimes, when I have spent days in my study dreaming a world while the world itself shines outside my windows, forgetting to call my mother because one of my nonbeings has come up with a thought that interests me, I think, this is a very odd way to spend a life. But I have my library all around me, my cloud of witnesses to the strangeness and brilliance of human experience, who have helped me to my deepest enjoyments of it.
— Marilynne Robinson, When I Was a Child, I Read Books, p. 22-23
When I coach students through essay writing, I invariably give the most able the same direction: go deeper, go deeper. In each iteration, reveal more, of who you truly are, of what you really think. That’s the hallmark of aging, too, that we learn to go deeper, in our friendships, in our family life, in our reflections on how we live and how we face the future. The reason we develop an equanimity about our lives and ourselves is that we have gone deep into what has real meaning.
— Anna Quindlen, Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake, p. 149
That’s what’s so wonderful about reading, that books and poetry and essays make us feel as though we’re connected, as though the thoughts and feelings we believe are singular and sometimes nutty are shared by others, that we are all more alike than different. It’s the wonderful thing about writing, too. Sometimes I would think I was the only person alive concerned about some crazy cul-de-sac of human behavior. Then I would get the letters from readers and realize that that was not the case, that we were not alone, any of us.
— Anna Quindlen, Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake, p. x
As with physical exercise, much of the benefit of prayer comes as a result of consistency, the simple act of showing up. The writer Nancy Mairs says she attends church in the same spirit in which a writer goes to her desk every morning, so that if an idea comes along she’ll be there to receive it. I approach prayer in the same way. Many days I would be hard-pressed to describe a direct benefit. I keep on, though, whether it feels like I am profiting or not. I show up in hopes of getting to know God better, and perhaps hearing from God in ways accessible only through quiet and solitude.
— Philip Yancey, Prayer: Does It Make Any Difference? quoted in Grace Notes, p. 39
We who make stories know that we tell lies for a living. But they are good lies that say true things, and we owe it to our readers to build them as best we can. Because somewhere out there is someone who needs that story. Someone who will grow up with a different landscape, who without that story will be a different person. And who with that story may have hope, or wisdom, or kindness, or comfort.
And that is why we write.
–Neil Gaiman, Newbery Acceptance Speech, Horn Book Magazine, July/August 2009, Volume LXXXV Number 4, p. 350
I am still plugging away at my writing. The road to literature is at first a very slow one, but I have made a good deal of progress since this time last year, and I mean to work patiently on until I win — as I believe I shall, sooner or later — recognition and success.
— L. M. Montgomery, before the publication of Anne of Green Gables
Creative expression is contagious and loves company.
— SARK, Juicy Pens and Thirsty Paper, p. 128
Our stories have power. Let this power be at the heart of your writing practice, and let your writings awaken and strengthen you in return.
Let all these stories inspire you to spend your time more richly, and let that richness spill onto your pages.
Let your stories of change and stumblings illuminate the path for those hiking behind you. Writing lights a bright beam for all to see, and that light leads to more souls sharing their experiences.
Let me give you a big “juicy pen” and some “thirsty paper” to drink up your words and stories.
— Juicy Pens, Thirsty Paper, by SARK, p. 119-120
Writing is kind of like surfing — it’s a challenge to stand up on the board, but when you do, it’s a glorious ride.
— SARK, Juicy Pens, Thirsty Paper, p. 101