September 3---Labor Day
I found myself lurking at a writer site, supposed to emphasize crime & mystery. But alas, the stress was on inside bickering and petty misunderstandings.
So let's---Just Write
If there is really a good book out there that you want to read, but—it hasn’t been written yet, then go ahead and write it.
Crime novelist Eugene Izzi’s death remains his most famous mystery. He was found hanging outside the window of his office in a Chicago high-rise in 1994, armed with brass knuckles and wearing a bulletproof vest. Thirteen years later, no one has been able to determine whether he was murdered or committed suicide or became a victim of his own research.
I’m guessing: Someone must have said these things.
I live with the people I create—and it has made my necessary loneliness less keen.
We are confined by our own repression.
Doubt is the father of good prose—when a sentence gives me fits—I end up liking the end result.
He/she serves a purpose who only stands and cheers. I’m thinkin’ reader, here.
From my close observation of writers—they fall into two groups: (1) those who bleed copiously and visibly at any bad review, and (2) those who bleed copiously and secretly at any bad review.
That was Isaac Asimov
Who can type the most words into the most meaningless thought? I do believe I might be catching on to something here.
If you are killed because you are a writer, that’s the maximum expression of respect.
A mind that is stretched by a new experience can never go back to its old dimensions. I think that was one of my old Prof’s advice from a class I hated.
Ernest Hemingway's fondness for the four-letter words worried his editor, Maxwell Perkins, who once wrote a list of them on a Things to Do Today pad, intending to discuss them with the editorial board at Charles Scribner's and Sons. Scribner stopped by at his desk to chat, glanced at the pad, and said, "Max, I'm putting you in for a vacation. When you have to remind yourself to do these things, it's clear you need a rest."