Your weekly offering of writing/art prompts.
This week has been a tough one around our house for getting any work done. That’s because there are other people here working – sawing, sanding, hammering, nailing, staining. Noisy stuff. Dusty stuff.
When daily life is disrupted, it’s nice to return to things that have soothed us in the past. Or inspired us. Or made us laugh. And that’s why today’s prompts are just that – fragments from other books I love.
File this under, “things to swipe”.
Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released.
(from Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg. Boston: Shambhala Publications, Inc., 1986, page 38.)
I look east over the San Andreas fault that lies down the middle of the valley like a piece of overcooked meat. Soon enough the sun will explode over that fault and into my day like a line of Vegas showgirls bursting on stage. My dogs are watching, too. They know that an event of import will happen. These dogs, I tell you, they are so smart, but they worry me sometimes.
(from Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture by Douglas Coupland. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1991, page 4.)
There was nothing but pie.
But there were all nine kinds of pie that Harold liked best.
(from Harold and the Purple Crayon by Crockett Johnson. New York: Harper Collins, 1955.)
….as men accept the time clock of the wilderness, their lives become completely different. It is one of the great compensations of primitive experience, and when one finally reaches the point where days are governed by daylight and dark, rather than by schedules, where one eats if hungry and sleeps when tired, and becomes completely immersed in the ancient rhythms, then one begins to live.
(from Reflections from the North Country by Sigurd F. Olson. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1976, page 28.)
This is a very great book by an American genius.
I have worked so hard on this masterpiece for the past six years. I have groaned and banged my head on radiators. I have walked through every hotel lobby in New York, thinking about this book and weeping, and driving my fist into the guts of grandfather clocks.
(from the introduction to Palm Sunday by Kurt Vonnegut. London: Grafton Books, 1982.)
Happy Friday, everyone. Here’s to melting snow. And good books.