Ink Well is a collaborative online showcase for emerging talent in art, creative writing, and photography organized around a central theme. We review year-round and publish six volumes a year, interspersed with other artsy fartsy content. Creative types, unite.
Now accepting submissions for VOLUME 14: POWER & CORRUPTION at submissions@inkwellmag.com.
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18 posts tagged write
Ah, the life of a writer. (via the PEN/Faulkner Foundation)
I just LOL’d
Literary Birthday - 10 April
Happy Birthday, Paul Theroux, born 10 April 1941
12 Paul Theroux Quotes
- Fiction gives us a second chance that life denies us.
- I can’t predict how reading habits will change. But I will say that the greatest loss is the paper archive - no more a great stack of manuscripts, letters, and notebooks from a writer’s life, but only a tiny pile of disks, little plastic cookies where once were calligraphic marvels.
- Mark Twain was a great traveler and he wrote three or four great travel books. I wouldn’t say that I’m a travel novelist but rather a novelist who travels - and who uses travel as a background for finding stories of places.
- Many aspects of the writing life have changed since I published my first book, in the 1960s. It is more corporate, more driven by profits and marketing, and generally less congenial - but my day is the same: get out of bed, procrastinate, sit down at my desk, try to write something.
- Reading alters the appearance of a book. Once it has been read, it never looks the same again, and people leave their individual imprint on a book they have read. Once of the pleasures of reading is seeing this alteration on the pages, and the way, by reading it, you have made the book yours.
- The more you write, the more you’re capable of writing.
- I know there are writers who feel unhappy with domesticity and who even manufacture domestic turmoil in order to have something to write about. With me, though, the happier I feel, the better I write.
- A novel captures essence that is not possible in any other form.
- Fiction writing, and the reading of it, and book buying, have always been the activities of a tiny minority of people, even in the most-literate societies.
- I’m constantly running across people who have never heard of books I think they should read.
- You can’t write about a friend, you can only write about a former friend.
- Writing is pretty crummy on the nerves.
Theroux is an American travel writer and novelist. The Great Railway Bazaar is his most famous work of non-fiction. He is best known for his novel The Mosquito Coast. He is the father of British authors and documentary makers Louis Theroux and Marcel Theroux.
by Amanda Patterson for Writers Write
“One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment.”
Hart Crane
(via thatawkwardwritingmoment)
“‘Hypnic Jerk’ is a story about the momentum of life, and how it can
run off without you if you let it.”—Louis
***
It felt like a splash-down from a jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.
I woke up with a start after that half-asleep feeling like I was hurtling downward. At two in the morning, I still couldn’t get to sleep. My mind reeled after the past few days. Life felt like it was gaining speed, slipping away and I couldn’t hold on. Soon it may run off without me.
I sat up and picked a glass of water up off the bedside table.
Didn’t I just graduate yesterday? I thought.
No, that was at least two years ago, said that know-it-all little voice in the back of my head.
Quiet, I said. I graduated, moved, moved again, left everything behind, and here I am. How long have I been here?
Nearly a year, now.
When did that happen?
Well, I guess it sort of crept up on us.
Smartass. I took a sip, set the glass back down, and tried to go back to sleep. I knew sleep wouldn’t come easy. It hadn’t for days, ever since this thought latched on to my psyche like a tick.
Well it’s not like you didn’t see this coming, the voice said.
She’s getting married, I said. Everyone’s getting married. Everyone’s having kids. Everyone’s moving on, and I’m halfway across the country from anyone I give a damn about.
Wah, wah, wah. You knew this would happen when you left.
I didn’t have much of a choice, now did I?
Sure you did. You had two choices: go or stay.
Like the Clash song.
Now who’s the smartass?
Did you know Ink Well Mag is based in Chicago? As the Windy City reels from yet another tale of political corruption this week, we figured it was a timely moment to announce the theme for Volume 14: “Power and Corruption”.
For this issue, show us what these big ideas inspire in you. Maybe important social or political causes come to mind. Maybe you want to draw awareness to a particular injustice. Or maybe there’s a powerful spark in your personal life that you want to explore. If life imitates art imitates life, as The Onion joked recently…why are you inspired to create works of art around these themes? What is the story you are trying to tell, the reaction you want to provoke, with your work? Send us your stuff. We want to hear from you.
We’re accepting submissions (click here for our very important guidelines please) through Friday, March 29!
Dan is the author of “Roots”.
I never thought I’d go back.
Never.
Not to a Homecoming. Not to a class reunion. Not for any reason.
When my aging parents moved out of that god-forsaken town ten years ago —with its closed down businesses, its pot-holed roads, its homes with boarded windows, its yards with rusted out Buicks and Mercury’s and Chevy’s and Fords, its redneck inhabitants who never cracked a book, nor read a poem, nor seen a play; who thought a good salad consisted of two ingredients: iceberg lettuce and French dressing from a plastic bottle—I honestly never thought I would go back again. In fact, the mere thought of doing so—of driving that stretch of open fields to the outskirts of town, where the most hideous sign “welcomes” incomers like a prostitute welcomes a customer—practically nauseated me.
I spent an inordinate amount of time in my childhood and adolescent years dreaming of getting the hell out of the town of Laxton, Iowa—away from the blue collars and the red necks; the bingo and beer and bowling alley; the cigarette-stained ceilings and teeth; the hair curlers and bandanas and belt buckles and 4-H Fairs. I fantasized about literally being thousands of miles away, far enough so that its long tentacles could not pull me back to that cesspool like it had so many others. Far enough away so that I could treat it as if it didn’t exist; actually, as if it never existed.
I was doing chores in the flower bed of my yard in Austin when I got the message on my voice mail asking me to go back to that mind-numbing town.
J’Sun is the poet behind Home.
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