It took me about three years to write About Grace. I wasn't teaching two of those years, so I was working eight-hour days, five days a week. And it would include research and reading - it wasn't just a blank page, laying down words.
quote by Anthony Doerr
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
In the years since I worked with John Hughes, there were many years where I literally had hundred of doors slammed in my face because I wasn't that kid anymore, and I wasn't a character actor, and I wasn't a leading man, and I wasn't whatever Hollywood was looking for.
quote by Anthony Michael Hall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hidden Within
I write more on some days
than I do on others.
On those days there is an urgency
hidden within what I do.
I cannot explain it,
nor do I ever try.
I just sit down, write,
and write to my hearts content.
The pouring out of words
is something I have got used to.
I write wherever I am, at home,
in my car when I am not driving of course.
Walking along the street, even in my sleep.
My mind is always active
exploring new avenues,
laying waste to more words.
It is my way of life
and I would be lost without it.
I once gave up for six or seven years,
but its pull was always there.
It’s something I will never do again.
My legacy when I leave this world
will be within my words
and any good things I have done.
Hopefully, that won’t be
for a long, long time to come.
24 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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When I was younger, my whole sense of self-worth was based on whether or not I was working, which was awful. And I had a baby at 20 years old, so it wasn't just about me. At around the age of 30 there was a stretch where I wasn't working - certainly not on anything I liked, anyway - and I started to do other things.
quote by Kiefer Sutherland
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writers Block
The worst thing any writer can experience
is the most dreaded writers block.
Sitting in front of a blank sheet of paper
waiting and waiting for the words to come.
It is the curse of all writers
whether they are good or bad.
The frustration of trying to unblock their mind.
We try it with reading others words or soothing music
hoping to stimulate the little grey cells into working.
However it is never as easy as it sounds
as a writers block can sometimes last for years,
I know that from experience as
I have been down that road before.
Then the inexplicable happens and you pick up a pen
and that blank page is not blank anymore,
it is filled with words galore.
The torture is over and a new start begins.
You give a big sigh of relief as your writing begins again,
but being always weary in case that block comes back again.
14 January 2011
poem by David Harris
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A Blank Page Blues
I know we have all done it,
sat in front of a pristine white sheet of paper
and got ready to write something down,
and then we are confronted
with the blank page blues.
The words of inspiration
then scurry and hide away.
You are left with pen in hand,
scratching your head
wondering what to say.
There is no cure for this syndrome;
writers get it all the time.
Some call it a writer’s block,
when nothing comes into your head.
You sit in front of a blank page.
You know what you want to write,
then someone disturbs you
and the words disappear out of sight.
How many times have we had that?
We sit down to write our masterpiece
and the telephone rings,
or someone shouts your dinner is getting cold.
You feel like screaming,
but you take it on the chin.
You lay down your pen,
answer the phone or have your dinner,
and when you come back,
the blank page confronts you.
Still you cannot write anything on it.
You stare at it for hours,
until finally you get tired
and journey off to bed.
Hoping and hoping tomorrow
a little peace, it will bring
and your words on that blank page
will really begin to sing.
10 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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1 Among Few
At long last! !
I have found you once again;
Because, you are '1 among few'!
And, your words still run in me.
Yo re like a saint to me!
An, more than one! !
Because your are '1 among few',
And your words still run in me.
I do remember those days,
But i wasn't matured enough to understand your vision by then;
But noe, i know who you are!
Because you are the chosen one,
And you are '1 among few'.
Your words are the words of light which overcome darkness!
And i am glad to meet you once again after many years in absence;
Because your are '1 among few' whose words touches my heart deeply! !
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Except That It Is Less Than Ever Before
THE DAYS GO BY
The days go by
The years have gone by
Life has gone by -
No one knows how much time is left
Except that it is less than ever before
I write these words in haste
But they too will wait
“Time and the hour will run through the roughest day”
And I will be not.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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In Three Days
As we see all the troubled times upon Israel, God's chosen nation,
To understand these times you need to turn to His Holy Revelation.
Hosea said of The Lord, after two days the land He would revive,
And after many dormant and desolate years, the land did come alive.
Hosea went on to say, on the third day the land would be restored,
This will be fulfilled when on David's Throne they see The Lord.
We are not talking days of past, but of years is what you might say,
But with the Lord a day is thousand years, and the years are a day.
For The Lord God is not constrained to earthly time like you and me,
For God is a timeless being, from the beginning through all eternity.
Time throughout The Bible has been used by God in different ways,
For a week in some prophetic passages is years, not simply days.
Seventy weeks in Daniel are decreed on his people and his Holy City,
To do away with sin and bring everlasting righteousness and safety.
The final week, which is the last seven years of Daniel's revelation,
Jeremiah calls The Time of Jacob's Trouble, or The Great Tribulation.
But, Zechariah tells of when God's Grace comes to this tiny nation,
And they will see the one they pierced, and will accept His Salvation.
It's true what Peter spoke about the prophets and what they decreed,
Their words are made more certain today for you and I to heed.
(Copyright © 04/2002)
Vow 2 (Right Words)
I've always been able to
now I don't even know what to do
it's never been a problem before
I've always been able to write about it
talk about it, now that it hit me
I'm somewhat speechless
I put pad to pen, nothing
an empty space on a white page
shouldn't this just write itself?
not a word or a single letter
I know it hit me, I feel it
it hurts yet I like it,
I smile at the sight of it
I've spent days and still on a blank page
it's stupid to say, but I give up
a pen is in rage to silence
to express this, these feelings
no words could describe
nor will I try
the only thing I can say for certain
that it is real, I Love you
this I vow.
poem by Kelvin Owusu
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Many What If’s And More
What if Cinderella wasn’t a princess
But the advertiser of a new flavored jellybean
What if Snow White wasn’t pretty
But the ugliest hag ever seen
What if soccer wasn’t a game
But a new kind of disease
What if an oven isn’t used for warming food
But to make them freeze
What if tom wasn’t a cartoon
But a new mechanical device
That help cats in catching mice
Get very quick and wise
What if Jerry wasn’t a mouse
But another name for cherry
What if a mountain wasn’t mountain
But a new kind of berry
What if shoes weren’t used on feet
But to help us see
What if I wasn’t myself
I wonder who’d write this instead of me!
poem by Risha Ahmed
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Half Full
I'll write these words.
I'll write more tomorrow.
Will they be read by anyone,
does it matter either way?
I am reading them,
and that goes to prove that they've been written,
that my mind is not blank.
I have sympathy for the blank-minded people.
Although I'm sure,
they would sympathize with me...
if only their minds were not blank,
And they weren't just content to be.
poem by Edward Veilleux
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Church of the Little Drummer Boy
He didn't do it for money,
He didn't to it for power,
It wasn't an inside job,
And he probably wasn't real.
But he wasn't controlled by the Mafia,
Maybe he was just a dream,
Or maybe just a hope,
Of what Christmas might mean.
Over the years many a child
Has heard of the Little Drummer Boy,
How he played his drum for Jesus
To bring the Baby some joy.
He didn't do it to be a big shot,
He wasn't Ginger Baker,
He played out of musical love,
And he wasn't a faker.
If you're looking for religion,
The Drummer Boy is good to go,
I mean, he's as churchy as it gets,
Considering the show.
poem by Richard Jarboe
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I've Tried That...
sleeping with a broken heart,
for days, weeks, years,
waking up everyday
on a self
still intact,
unbroken like the constancy
of my days,
week,
& years,
a morning coffee
sipped
without any thought
of having
tasted any
coffeeness at all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Years 1
For years I let the torment go on
Years I let you get in my head
Years I had to cry myself to sleep
your out now and last night
what you did to me replayed in my head again
I told myself i wasn't going to let it happen but it did
For years I have lived in scared quarters
For years I have looked for your face
For years I have never felt safe
For years I have remembered
poem by Marissa Ford
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Amazing Grace
Amazing grace! How sweet the sound!
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
was blind, but now I see.
Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
and grace my fears relieved.
How precious did that grace appear,
the hour I first believed!
Through many dangers, toils, and snares
I have already come.
Tis grace that brought me safe thus far,
and grace will lead me home.
When we've been there ten thousand years,
bright shining as the sun.
We've no less days to sing God's grace,
than when we first begun.
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That wasn't because of money, it was because I had a job for the next two days and wanted to work. So I faked a test. That was over two years ago. Why has there been no issue about it since then?
quote by Marc Wallice
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When I write, the first blank page, or any blank page, means nothing to me. What means something is a page that has been filled with words.
quote by Guillermo Cabrera Infante
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hard times
I didn't have much as a kid;
Oh, we were always fed and clad.
but for luxuries, God forbid!
Two-bits a week was all I had.
Fifteen cents spent on a movie
The remaining ten bought candy
Even that wasn't guaranteed.
Picking a landfill was handy
When money wasn't to be had
I'd pick the dump for tin and rags
And head for the junkyard with dad
Carrying the days find in bags.
Although a youth I recognized
the wounded pride in daddy's eyes.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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I hadn't done much rapping in a while. I really wasn't sure I was going to do that any more. For a couple years I thought I was done with that. It wasn't really required of me.
Rebecca
Past loves you always remember
and Rebecca I’ve never forgot.
It was in May when we first met,
and the days were unusually hot.
We were both sixteen and innocent,
and love’s spark grew into a flame.
Desire and passion overwhelmed us,
and our deepest love was to blame.
Early evenings we spent together
and most of our weekend days.
We made love wherever we could,
and in so many different ways.
At eighteen she wanted to marry,
but I said we were too young.
She of course didn’t agree
and of course I was wrong.
We fell out and didn’t see each other
for maybe a week or more,
and then we both apologised,
and made love like never before.
Our relationship became a volcano
in every sense of the word.
One moment all was calm and beautiful,
and then, eruptions could be heard.
Following another reconciliation
we decided to go our separate ways.
This time there was no going back;
there were no more loving days.
She soon found another lover,
and got married without delay.
Nine months after our separation
a baby had come her way.
Because she made no contact
I assumed the baby wasn’t mine.
I never thought any more about it,
and my life was ticking over fine.
Two years later we met by accident
and I asked if the child was mine.
With a grin she changed the subject,
so the answer I couldn’t find.
After forty years had passed,
Rebecca knocked at my door,
and said the woman by her side
is the daughter I should adore.
“Well! After all this time, ” I said,
“how do I know it’s true? ”
“Just look at her, ” she said,
“she’s the spitting image of you.
I brought her here to see you
because she seemed to know
that her dad wasn’t her father,
and she repeatedly told me so.
She pleaded with me to tell the truth
and since my husband recently died.
I felt that I had to tell her about you,
and apologised for all the years I lied.
It would’ve broken my husband’s heart
if he had found out that I had lied,
and so I had to explain to my daughter
why I thought the lie was justified.”
“What a shock! I don’t know what to say,
or come to that, what to do.
I better begin by saying,
“Hello daughter, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
poem by Orlando Belo
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