A story is a letter that the author writes to himself, to tell himself things that he would be unable to discover otherwise.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon in The Shadow of the Wind (2001)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Related quotes
Every author really wants to have letters printed in the papers. Unable to make the grade, he drops down a rung of the ladder and writes novels.
quote by P.G. Wodehouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fundamental of Liar Chapter CX: Ability
It’s not unable, it’s just not a favor
It’s not unable, it’s just reluctance
It’s not unable, it’s just not my style
It’s not unable, it’s just wrong
It’s not unable, it’s just no time
It’s not unable, it’s just out of place
It’s not unable, it’s just not consideration
It’s not unable, it’s just objection
It’s not unable, it’s just not effective
It’s not unable, it’s just stubbornness
It’s not unable, it’s just not important
It’s not unable, it’s just mercy
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Written in Black Ink
Upon
The tear-stained
Paper
She writes
Writes,
Her story
Her experiences
Her life
Written in
Black ink
Upon
The tear-stained
Paper
She writes
Writes,
Her sorrows
People she lost
People who are gone
Written in
Black ink
She writes for
Days and
Days
Until
At last
Her masterpiece
Is finished
Her eyes Begin to
Close and
Oblivion Takes hold
And when she
Awakens
Her story will be written
Written in black ink
poem by Autumn Winds
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Love story
Love story
~
And somewhere it may be written
a love story not of fairy-tales
or a Hollywood blockbuster
neither the best selling novel
of some highly respect author
or a poetic sonnet which sings
odes to sweet undying passion
it is more simple, honest
a love story of modern times
which bypasses the ageless classics
and clichés of romance
it may not make you cry
but it still remains a love story
lacking high drama or duels fought
mistakes are made and learnt from
and the happy ending still awaits
to be realised and celebrated
but somewhere it is written
in diary or letter form
the love story to this poem
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Must
She writes as if there’s not much time.
She writes to pain, to happiness,
She writes to every remote detailed thought.
She writes to the departed,
to the extant,
to poverty,
to wealth.
She writes to mourn, and grief.
She writes to the wind, the rain,
forest, the desert, and mountains.
She writes to her pouring tears,
to her grateful moments,
She writes because really what she has is time.
She has no little ones to feed, or bathe,
nor a husband to make happy. To write is
to escape- to her. Time is not a problem, time
is just a killing system, she needs to kill in many words.
She writes as if there’s not much time.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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The Love Letter
She wonders how to begin her letter
She knows he will read each word
Greedily for any hint of love. She knows
He will sniff the paper for any scent of her
She leans an elbow on her writing desk
And clutches her pen tight. She has got
As far as, Dear John, but then the words
Stopped coming. Before she had sat down
To write, the words flowed through her
Mind like a rushing stream, now nothing
She sucks the end of the pen. Say what
You would if you were face to face, her
Mother always said. She tries to imagine
He is there before her and what she would
Say if he was, but still no words will come
He writes to her so fluently when he writes
He always seems to know what to write
And how to put it into words. She tries again
Puts the pen nib onto the paper, gripping
The pen tighter. She reads what she’s written
Dear John. The pen moves, the words begin
To flow, her hand moves across the page
The images come into her mind as she writes
The things that they said last time they met
The things they did, she blushes slightly
That almost being caught out by the maid
In a state of undress. She pauses the pen
And sits gazing at the painting on the wall.
She looks back at the paper and starts again
The words tripping over themselves to be put
Down in ink upon a page; the images open up
In her mind, the colours, the smells, the events
The pen now stops. The love letter is written
The writing done. She looks at the words
Then she seals it in an envelope and writes
His address. She pictures him reading it: in bed
In his room, sleepy, in a state of his usual undress
poem by Terry Collett
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A Love Letter
A love letter from me,
To you;
To say something important.
A love letter from me,
To tell a love story,
About you and me.
A love letter about friendship,
To strengthen our relationship,
And express our special feelship.
A love letter about love,
Love of life partnership,
Love of life friendship.
A love letter from you,
To say that;
You always miss me.
A love letter from you,
To tell that;
You always think of me.
A love letter written
For You, my love,
On this day.
A love letter written,
Sealed With kisses, and
Hug and Smile.
A love letter sends
By hand and
with much Heartfelt.
A love letter to
Say “I love You”;
Say “ I Miss you”;
Say “I think of you”.
A Love letter seals,
With a lot of love, and
Heartfelt.
A love letter written,
About love poem written,
In Remembrance of our sweet memory.
© Lawrence Hiung, January 2012.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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The Writer's Author
GOD had written a story
in a book called 'destiny'
all things and even not-a-things are listed
and won't be missed
even Shakespeare could write the beautiful romeo n Juliet,
the story of Othello, Hamlet
or even he could made the beautifullest sonnet
GOD had written about all writer and poet
GOD is writer's author
March 2009
poem by Arif Furqan
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A Poetic Something
I think I am a poet
therefore I'm lying to myself
in just a line I saw it
just lying on the shelf
I reached for it
It moved out of reach
those words I knew
those words my mind grew
Unable to jot down
a mute to speak out
unable, unable it rocks
strange sounds, broken cradle
stop rocking, its unstable
now across the dinner table
I see it, I saw it
should I move towards it?
Turn back, just ignore it
now it follows
astounding, I have no use for it
it gives permission for those words
it writes, it reads ‘Hi'
Oh you got to be kidding
poem by Kelvin Owusu
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Specter of Brocken
It sees by negative eyes.
All cannot come to like.
I dislike all.
It sees by affirmative eyes.
All are wonderful.
I like all.
It sees by negative eyes.
Everyone has seemed to hide the crime.
Everyone is a criminal.
It sees by affirmative eyes.
Everyone seems to be pure.
Everyone is a good human.
Eyes see the shadow.
Head writes the story.
Story that changes depending on feelings.
The truth is transparent ahead of feelings.
Eyes see the shadow.
Head writes the story.
Story was written only from my prejudice.
Alarming Creation
An alarming creation has been assembled,
For he does his work and begets, the very same.
The author creates and blocks out like one who imagines,
In an institution consuming ice and ink.
The embryonic stages set in motion and lead to fabrication,
Of first cracks, of elementary layers like the cakes.
This is the opening, there will be some with less,
But the author of creativity shows a plot or story.
Much is lion, most is gathering when a story unfolds,
Like a consternation, like an alarm of a clock.
The created beings set away from the land
And erode into the sea, the seas and the oceans.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Going On
It seems like this story just keeps going on
Like an endless rant
That I couldn't stop not even if I should want
To, but it presses forward like a damnation
Or a punishment it just keeps going and going
I don't even know what I'm doing
And yet those actions done or not
Are writing my story letter by letter
Those motivational speakers say I'm the pilot
Of my life but i couldn't feel any less in control- helter skelter
But I'll just keep going on writing these poems
And through them writing my story for all time
Forever chronicled in rhyme after rhyme
Because this is all a part of me
These poems they're my problems
And my solutions, or maybe they're nothing more than words
Maybe I'm just overthinking this, but either way It'll go on
Just keep moving on, until comatose or final resting beds
I guess this story will continue until ascension
poem by David Knox
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Today... 'Author of eternal salvation
The last eternal chapter has been written
telling of how The Lamb of God was smitten.
This great story of salvation I will tell
of the Saviour who has saved my soul from hell.
My song will echo throughout eternity
and I'll sing Your praise in the heavenly city.
Life everlasting to all those who obey
eternal salvation as we walk God's way.
Prayers and petitions are offered on high
by the Only Son who came to earth to die.
The Author of Eternal Salvation came
for it was to bear our sin and all its shame.
For the Author of Life died upon the cross
suffering such agonising shame and loss.
Then rising from the dead He ascended high
into the heavens and nevermore will die.
And my name in love He has recorded there
In the Book of Life kept safe in heavens care.
With His crimson blood each letter He has penned
Waiting for the day when the book is opened.
All of the redeemed gathered in safety there
‘n the glory together each will declare
they were saved from Gods great condemnation
By the Author of Eternal Salvation.
(see also the additional information below in the Poet's box)
My Scenario
Oh, I've got a lovely story that I've thought out all myself.
It will make a gorgeous picture, I am sure.
(Mind, it isn't for the money, for I am not keen on pelf,
nd my attitude to Art is very pure.)
It is full of real heart-int'rest, mother-love and passion rare,
And gun-fights and a bad, bold man (who dies),
And a big, strong he-man hero with divinely marcelled hair;
And I really think it ought to win the prize.
The hero falls on evil days and sinks and sinks quite low
(This is where the villain comes upon the scene),
But the mother writes a letter pointing out the way to go
(We will show the letter, close-up, on the screen):
Then Augustus (that's the hero) meets a lovely girl by chance,
With great, big, soulful, golf-ball, baby eyes,
And undying love comes to them at the very first brief glance.
Oh, I really think it ought to win the prize.
But ways of true love ne'er run smooth, and lots of dreadful things
Occur, and all their plans turn out amiss.
But thro' the fights and flights and frights she clings and clings and clings
To win him with the last, long, luscious kiss.
I don't know much of writing things - scenarios and such;
Still, one never really knows what one can do.
But the theme is so original and has so quaint a touch
That I think it ought to win the prize. Don't you?
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Maybe I Was Damon In A Past Life
Maybe I was Damon Runyon in a past time
he died at age 66 which was the year I began my life.
I also write about someone I call the "Guy"
who maybe is kind of shy.
Damon wrote a play with Dolls & Guys
which was acted out in NYC—very true-not a lie.
I write about a Doll
who is cute and kind of small.
Damon also named his pet _____
almost like mine.
I write about a character with letter
beginning with N—
he was only a sponsor to me—
he wanted to be more than friends—
Just like Damon-
who writes about characters where
he actually supported them
in his writing he actually defends.
Damon also writes about baseball
I don't know baseball at all.
I am more of a poet who story-tells-
I write of the doll character nicknamed Mel.
See baseball is not my cup of tea—
but to Damon he was famous for
being a reporter known around the country.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 17,2012
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Pink Letter
Dear Father,
To thee this letter
Is written with a child’s wonder.
Pink ink
On a fancy paper almost pink
Like a blush on a maiden’s cheek
Like rose abloom in mountain’s peak.
Pink letter in the hands of a child
Bears words innocent and mild
Glorifying the father who made all –
tame and wild.
Pink letter with heavenly scent
Pink ink that stays, not evanescent
Lasts in the heart of the child who writes
Too innocent to name wrong from right.
Dear Father,
To thee this letter
Is written with a child’s wonder.
poem by Geraldine Fernandez
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Friends
As pretty as a song
A song could ever be
Like Christmas on a river
Without a boat or Christmas tree
This afternoon with you was something like a letter
The kind that someone writes but never sends
And when you look at me
You remind me that someday it's gonna end
And when you pass on
I bet you miss your friends
As simple as a breeze
Tugging hard upon the sail
Been moving through these streets forever
From Istanbul to Amsterdam
This afternoon with you was something like a letter
The kind that someone writes but never sends
And when you look at me
You remind me that someday it's gonna end
And when you pass on
God, I bet you miss your friends
As pretty as a song
A song could ever be
Like Christmas on a river
Without a boat or Christmas tree
This afternoon with you was something like a letter
The kind that someone writes but never sends
And when you look at me
You remind me that someday it's gonna end
And when you pass on
God, I bet you miss your friends
Miss your friends
God, I bet you miss your friends
song performed by by Ryan Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In the Dark of the Sun
Having heard so much about nightlife,
The Sun was at pains to discover
The mysteries of the nighttime
So she pursued it around like a lover.
But wherever the Sun would go,
She would find the night had just been.
The Sun sighed with frustration
Night had eluded her once again.
“I’m not very good as a Stalker
even though I’m such an early riser.
I’ll never discover my dark side
And I’ll end my days no whit the wiser”
Author’s note: I’m just being whimsical here, so don't get all Copernican on me. I know the Earth Revolves around the Sun and rotates on its axis.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Our life is a book that writes itself and whose principal themes sometimes escape us. We are like characters in a novel who do not always understand what the author wants of them.
quote by Julien Green
Submitted by Simona Enache
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Crazy Letter
When I back Home
After my long traveling in north
I found two letters in my mailbox
One from bank told me, sorry sir
In your account just have ten Dirhams now
Another one from a crazy woman
She writes me
I am Zineb the beautiful girl sits near you in bus
You remember me sir?
I am sure you still remember me
I am the pretty girl in the bus
I know you like me
I saw that in your eyes
But I don’t like you sir
Because you are not the man I looking for
I am looking for a man
Handsome
Smart
Rich
I know you is not handsome, not rich and not smart
But I am tired looking for the man I want
I can accept you if you want
I am sure you want
You can call me
This is my phone number
I read this letter and smile
Because it is first crazy letter I read in my live
But it is not last crazy letter I read
I still find in my letterbox other crazy letter
Send by crazy woman
poem by Bourjil Yousfi
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