I'm not myself, you see...

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Bon Jovi
Livin' on a Prayer

Halfway done writing final essays. Only necessary.

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Today’s creative writing activity…

…borrowing from the style of Mark Richard. I had a lot of fun with this little five minute exercise, and everyone should read Richard’s novel Fishboy because it is insane in a wonderful way.

“I was born as a boy, born from the memories of a jagged-edged past, from the choked ring of a hacking cough ripped from stale cigarette smoke and nicotine yellow fingertips gripped tight. A boy brought forward to the front of a room to recite lines, the tick of a clock marking out the empty seconds, thick air surrounding the swirls of endless nothing. Stupid; useless; underdeveloped; the words surrounded this boy, wrapped tight like a noose around an eggshell neck. This boy stared with wide blue eyes, reflecting pools of watery fear, a pollution-wracked ocean of rolling salty waves too deep to stand in or swim, too easy to drown.”

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For instance: “The curtains were blue.” What your teacher thinks: “The curtains represent his immense depression and his lack of will to carry on.” What the author meant: “The curtains were fucking blue.”

For instance: “The curtains were blue.”

What your teacher thinks: “The curtains represent his immense depression and his lack of will to carry on.”

What the author meant: “The curtains were fucking blue.”

(via dialogueasadiagram)

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My cousin Helen, who is in her 90s now, was in the Warsaw ghetto during World War II. She and a bunch of the girls in the ghetto had to do sewing each day. And if you were found with a book, it was an automatic death penalty. She had gotten hold of a copy of ‘Gone With the Wind’, and she would take three or four hours out of her sleeping time each night to read. And then, during the hour or so when they were sewing the next day, she would tell them all the story. These girls were risking certain death for a story. And when she told me that story herself, it actually made what I do feel more important. Because giving people stories is not a luxury. It’s actually one of the things that you live and die for.
Neil Gaiman (via noonday)

(Source: jaynestown, via fattiesinlove)