The last paragraph, in which you tell what the story is about, is almost always best left out.
quote by Irwin Shaw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
~April Fool~
April flipped herself in
Like a brand new paragraph
For i'd left off in March
And winter 'twas still the subject matter
The frost all but got me
Hypothermia of feelings
Once felt
Like coming into a heated June
My feelings they began to melt
But April flipped me in
Much like an April Fool
Vunerable and needy
Forgetful of what i had
Learned in school
And so another paragraph
Was formed
Along with the rain you did bring
Remind me-Mother Earth-
If you will
That not all flowers bloom
In the Spring
Aware that the showers
Are supposed to bring
Some Flowers that bloom in May
But ne'er prepared for
Story-tellers with eloquent words
That ne'er mean what they say
The flowers that later bloom
With brillance-aroma and Light
Take out the chill and hold on me still
During a most troubling dark of night
poem by Theodora Onken
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A review was published in Nature, very scathing, essentially calling me incompetent, though they didn't use that word. I am putting a reply on my Web site in a few days, where I go through their arguments, paragraph by paragraph.
quote by Bjorn Lomborg
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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And before I'd got to the end of the first paragraph, I'd come up slap bang against a fundamental problem that still troubles me today whenever I begin a story, and it's this: where am I telling it from?
quote by Philip Pullman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Studying
Paragraph after paragraph
Books piled up high
Attempting seemingly in vain
to force feed my brain
as time zips on by.
Vast information
consumed all in one go
only to be forgotten soon as the clock
strikes 'time up' tomorrow.
poem by Shaqueena Celestin
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Responsibility
Its not my responsibility
If you say you love me
(ooooooh)
(repeat paragraph)
I know for sometime
One day I would see you
(? ) what you say
Did I get it right
Is it you and me tonight ?
And you looked at me
And I knew wed be together
(be together)
You feel it too
What can we do
(feel, what can you do)
Come on, move up to me
I wanna whisper in your ear now
(do you want me)
When I get you home
Were gonna be alone
Disconnect the phone
When we wake up
You know the room is full of sunshine
We close our eyes and make a wish
Its not my responsibility
If you say you love me
(listen to what I say)
(ooooooh)
Its not my responsibility
If you say you love me
(its true)
(ooooooh)
Hey ! you call me back
cause Im not there when you want me
(do you want me)
The job on the phone
Every night and day
Ive got to get away
And on that we kiss
But I never said I loved you
(I love you)
Lets take it slow
Youve got to, got to let it go
Its not my responsibility
If you say you love me
(ooooooh)
(repeat paragraph)
(want you back, I need you back)
(ooooooh)
(repeat paragraph 5 times)
(want you back)
(I know I do)
(I need you back)
(I feel you do)
(want you back)
(I see you do)
(I need you back)
(I know you do)
(repeat paragraph)
What do you see
When youre looking straight at me
When I look at you
I tell you what I see
You dont belong to me
Sometimes its true
Youre gonna leave it when its over
(its over)
I close my eyes and make a wish
Its not my responsibility
If you say you love me
(ooooooh)
(repeat paragraph 5 times until fade)
song performed by by Heaven 17
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What I have in advance are people I want to write about and a problem or problems that I see those people encountering and that I want to explore - it all proceeds sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, and scene by scene.
quote by Chaim Potok
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bookworm
There's a story that like a dessert I love
And I enjoy every page slowly as much as I can
There's story that makes me desperate
And even my day becomes gloomy after I read
There's story that safe to be read anytime
And I don't mind if it's going up or down
There's story that could burn me to the core
And left me with desire to create another story
There's story that easily predict
And I could finish it without much thinking
There's story that has a very good cliffhanger
And I need to rush to the publisher to make it comes fast
There's story that goes like my dream
And I want to repeat over and over until I'm getting bored
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The Purple Cast
A breath is not a word
A whisper is not a sentence
Pain is not a paragraph
But Pride and Prejudice do make a book
What is a word?
Where is a sentence?
Who is paragraph?
When is a book?
All these question race through our minds
The universal quest for understanding
Flat on our backs, we contemplate
While the ambulance siren sounds
poem by Cornelia Ceilings
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Bad Writing
the sentence & the paragraph had agreed upon meeting at dawn
out in the middle of the page
as the reflection off the fine silver pen being lifted by the human hand in the sky
shone off the bright white recycled paper
there stood one strong paragraph,
which
was armed with clever words, quirky verbs & quiet frankly,
a whole slew of other sentences
who may or may not be brought into the fray
with this
vigilante,
who stood a good distance away from the paragraph
with its shadow blotting out part of the page-
the sentence was tight
knit
&
written in a language that the paragraph had never heard of
before-
the paragraph tilted it’s font a bit, to stave off the human shifting the paper,
causing a bit of a breeze across the soft plane,
but the sentence hadn’t come here today
to waste its time flashing its
fashion sense, and in
standard
new times roman,
it spoke out in italics
“we gonna do this or not? ”
& the paragraph,
without a moment’s hesitation,
nodded, saying, in some bold n’ fancy variation of
book antiqua,
“i been ready since i saw the punctuation at the end of your
babbling jumble of foreign words”-
at that point,
the title of the page & the
header
walked in tandem to the place in between both the paragraph
and the sentence-
now equidistant apart from both,
they talked of what had brought both these forms of writing
to the page
this brisk & early morning in
june-
to make a story short,
the foreign language sentence & the
english (current language of commerce) paragraph
had come to this duel over a
beautiful
metaphor-
and while both the title & the header could understand,
having fallen for beautiful metaphors once or twice in their own
multiple drafts, themselves,
it was still a sad sight to see two
strong forms of writing,
battling over one
metaphor,
when there were so many
phrases in the
sea of literature-
the title & the header opened up the utterance
& from that utterance, they pulled two perfect
pistols full of wit
(the weapon of choice for both the paragraph & the sentence) ,
and after handing both of the forms of writing their
prospective pistol,
they stood back and off to the side of the page,
frightened of what was to happen next-
back to back,
the paragraph & the sentence marched away from each other
space by space by space,
to the traditional margins,
and when they both reached them
they turned round quick,
firing their wit at will-
the paragraph,
hefty & edited well,
was able to fire its wit faster,
as it had already gone through so many drafts, and had
honed its skill
whereby each word within it, had its own place
(it was a “ripped” paragraph, if you can picture it-lean & not very wordy at all) ,
however,
though the sentence wasn’t as well formed as the paragraph,
it was sleek & stealthy-
its words rolled off a human’s tongue when they read it
aloud,
and in this, the sentence was able to
wiggle itself around,
missing the mass spray of wit that had been fired by the
paragraph’s pistol-
as in every fight,
there is a winner & a loser,
this one was no different,
and the hefty, well edited paragraph,
had too much to move
and too little time to do so,
when the sentence wielded its wit towards it-
the sentence, relentlessly, kept firing,
not satisfied & not feeling safe,
until the paragraph, with all of its fellow sentences within,
crumbled to the page,
now,
a mere pile of
sentence fragments & misplaced
words & punctuation.
the sentence,
victorious,
nodded to the title & the header, who nodded back,
and walked out of the lamplight & into the shadow
to embrace the sweet warmth of its
beautiful metaphor
which had been watching the wit-fight
behind the margin.
poem by Andrew Delapruch
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Im Not Hero
I-i had a chance for glory
Ooh-ooh wouldnt tell you no lies
Same end on another story
I-i could have prophesised
Id lose the prize
I-Im gonna raid the future
Ooh-ooh and I wanna know why
Everything is so temporary
Ooh those Ill let you know eyes
I should have realized
Im no hero
I wont get the glory
Im the one whos left behind
Im no hero
No place in your story
Im the man whos left behind
I must have been blind
Must have been
I-i needed understanding
Ooh-ooh you didnt symphathise
Left me here-left without a warning
Ooh you left me paralysed
I-i should have realized
Im no hero
I wont get the glory
Im the one whos left behind
Im no hero
No place in your story
Im the man whos left behind
I must have been blind
Must have been...oh so blind ahh blind
-solo-
Im no hero
I wont get the glory
Im the one whos left behind
Im no hero
No place in your story
Im the man whos left behind
I must have been blind
Must have been
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Masterpiece
A thought starts a sentence
A sentence forms a train of thought
From that train of thought comes a paragraph
A paragraph starts a work
A work sets a mood and fills the mind
Warms the heart or chills the soul
A work is finished and a masterpiece is made
poem by Matthew Wardell Petersen
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Where Do I Go From Here?
(words & music by paul williams)
If I knew the way Id go back home
The countryside has changed so much Id surely end up lost
Half-remembered names and faces so far in the past
On the other side of the bridges that were burned once they were crossed
Tell me where, where does a fool go when theres no-one left to listen
To a story without meaning that nobody wants to hear
Tell me where, where does a fool go when he knows theres something missing
Tell me where, where will I go from here
Where will I go from here
Get back home where my childhood dreams and wishes still are none of my regrets
Go back to a place where I can figure all the odds
Have a fighting chance to lose the blues and win my share of bets
Tell me where, where does a fool go when theres no-one left to listen
To a story without meaning that nobody wants to hear
Tell me where, where does a fool go when he knows theres something missing
Tell me where, where will I go from here
Where will I go from here
Tell me where, where does a fool go when theres no-one left to listen
To a story without meaning that nobody wants to hear
Tell me where, where does a fool go when he knows theres something missing
Tell me where, where will I go from here
Where will I go from here
Tell me where, where does a fool go when theres no-one left to listen
To a story without meaning that nobody wants to hear
Tell me where, where does a fool go when he knows theres something missing
Tell me where, where will I go from here
Where will I go from here
Tell me where, where does a fool go when theres no-one left to listen
To a story without meaning that nobody wants to hear
Tell me where, where does a fool go when he knows theres something missing
Tell me where, where will I go from here
Where will I go from here
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dear Lorca
Dear Lorca,
These letters are to be as temporary as our poetry is to be permanent. They will establish the bulk, the wastage that my sour-stomached contemporaries demand to help them swallow and digest the pure word. We will use up our rhetoric here so that it will not appear in our poems. Let it be consumed paragraph by paragraph, day by day, until nothing of it is left in our poetry and nothing of our poetry is left in it. It is precisely because these letters are unnecessary that they must be written.
In my last letter I spoke of the tradition. The fools that read these letters will think by this we mean what tradition seems to have meant lately—an historical patchwork (whether made up of Elizabethan quotations, guide books of the poet’s home town, or obscure bits of magic published by Pantheon) which is used to cover up the nakedness of the bare word. Tradition means much more than that. It means generations of different poets in different countries patiently telling the same story, writing the same poem, gaining and losing something with each transformation—but, of course, never really losing anything. This has nothing to do with calmness, classicism, temperament, or anything else. Invention is merely the enemy of poetry.
See how weak prose is. I invent a word like invention. These paragraphs could be translated, transformed by a chain of fifty poets in fifty languages, and they still would be temporary, untrue, unable to yield the substance of a single image. Prose invents—poetry discloses.
A mad man is talking to himself in the room next to mine. He speaks in prose. Presently I shall go to a bar and there one or two poets will speak to me and I to them and we will try to destroy each other or attract each other or even listen to each other and nothing will happen because we will be speaking in prose. I will go home, drunken and dissatisfied, and sleep—and my dreams will be prose. Even the subconscious is not patient enough for poetry.
You are dead and the dead are very patient.
Love,
Jack
poem by Jack Spicer
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This Is The Story (Takes 1,2)
I play the song, it was our own
Your photograph's by my side
I know I can't forget you
So I don't even try
The note you left is in my hand
I read again what you say
You're sorry but you love him
And you've both gone away
This is the story of a man
Whose world has fallen apart
And it's the story
That is breaking my heart
An open fire, our favorite chair
I get a book from the shelf
But the words I am reading
Could apply to myself
This is the story of a man
Whose world has fallen apart
And it's the story
That is breaking my heart
Yes, it's the story that is breaking my heart
Yes, it's the story that is breaking my heart
Yes, it's the story that is breaking my heart
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fundamental of Liar Chapter LXXX: Story
Story about future is called imagination
Story about past is called memories
Story about present is called reality
Story that becomes true is called prophecy
Story that becomes unfulfilled is called regret
Story that becomes no end is called boasting
Small story is called experience
Epic story is called history
Forgotten story is called lesson
Story that becomes obsession is called ambition
Story that becomes untold is called secret
Story that becomes go its own way is called life
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Tell Me A Story
Tell me a story that isn't gory
tell me a story that isn't fake
tell me a story where you made a mistake
tell me a story where the cows come home
tell me a story I want to know
tell me a story where the princess finds herself
not a prince who is more like an elf.
Tell me a story that I can laugh out loud
tell me a story where storm makes lighting clouds.
For in the end we only have our stories to tell
what make them funny, give them hell.
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Tell Me A Story
Tell me a story that isn't gory
tell me a story that isn't fake
tell me a story where you made a mistake
tell me a story where the cows come home
tell me a story I want to know
tell me a story where the princess finds herself
not a prince who is more like an elf.
Tell me a story that I can laugh out loud
tell me a story where storm makes lighting clouds.
For in the end we only have our stories to tell
what make them funny, give them hell.
poem by Christina Sunrise
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This Is The Story
(words & music by arnold - morrow - martin)
I play the song, it was our own
Your photographs by my side
I know I cant forget you
So I dont even try
The note you left is in my hand
I read again what you say
Youre sorry but you love him
And youve both gone away
This is the story of a man
Whose world has fallen apart
And its the story
That is breaking my heart
An open fire, our favorite chair
I get a book from the shelf
But the words I am reading
Could apply to myself
This is the story of a man
Whose world has fallen apart
And its the story
That is breaking my heart
Yes, its the story that is breaking my heart
Yes, its the story that is breaking my heart
Yes, its the story that is breaking my heart
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Letter Never Sent
Its been pretty simple so far, vacation in athens is calling me
And knock, knock, knock on wood, I thought Id left you behind
Heaven is yours, heaven is yours, heavens yours where I live
The thought of the catacombs left my soul at home
This letter never sent
And its so far, its so dark, Im so lost
Heavens yours, heavens yours, heavens yours where I live
(another story, another story for a while, someone show me)
When Im moving too fast, wheres my new address?
The water is evening now, the catacombs are filling in
If my soul was made of stone, no, not, not so dark, dark
And its so far, its so dark, Im so lost
And its so far, its so far, its so far
Heavens yours, heavens yours, heavens yours where I live
(another story, another story for a while, someone show me)
Heavens yours, heavens yours, heavens yours where I live
(another story, another story for a while, someone show me)
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Story Ends
Nothing feels right today
All whats left is nothing left to say
Each word seems so cold
And all stories seem told
How did it come this far ?
Is this the way, the way things are ?
Heres where the story fails
How did it come this far ?
Heres where the picture pales
Is this the way things are ?
No, Ive never found the place
To charm your chill, to wrap you in
Whatever the books may say
You get only whats on your way
Beyond our words we crave for more
Another road, another open door
Here is where my life begins
Leaving this world of sense
Here is where fiction begins
Here is where nothing stands.........still
When silence comes in , and creeps underneath the skin
If the lost word is lost and the spent word is spent
This is the time, this is the place where the story ends
Where the story ends
Where the story ends
song performed by by Xymox
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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