Pablo (king_cool_paul) wrote,


Reading E. Annie Proulx's The Shipping News, and this passage struck me enough to write it down and slip it in my pocket:

"Nothing was clear to lonesome Quoyle. His thoughts churned like the amorphous thing that ancient sailors, drifting into arctic half-light, called the Sea Lung; a heaving sludge of ice under fog where air blurred into water, where liquid was solid, where solids dissolved, where the sky froze and light and dark muddled."

I need to read more crappy books when I'm working on writing. Things like that passage above make me think I haven't got the words in me to be a truly fabulous writer. In college, I kept a shelf next to the computer of all the books I'd read over the past year or so that were complete and utter shit. I assumed that if those awful beasts could get published, then certainly whatever I was writing at the time could be as well.

And now I'm 35.

Gotta keep on keepin' on.

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