mary: Graffiti reading "your heart is a weapon the size of your fist. Keep fighting. Keep loving" ([misc] the heart is a weapon)
[personal profile] mary
If I'm going to be guts-and-all honest about the times it's shitty to be a writer, I want to be equally truthful about those rare, beautiful, sublime moments where everything suddenly aligns like lenses in a telescope, and the whole vista of the story and the theme and the meaning is suddenly clear and exciting and waiting.

13187 words in. Sitting at Southern Cross train station, platform 14, at about 6:25 or so this evening. I understood abruptly not just what Next Novel was about, but why. How it fitted together.

Right now, it all feels worth it. It all feels glorious.
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mary: A picture of a woman sitting in front of a stained glass window, from Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds (Default)
Isn't moral anarchy kind of the point?

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