How To Write A Novel
How to write a Novel
I like to write a book, any book as long as it has my name on the cover.
A one day course, how to write a novel. The course leader, a published
writer, wore a long dress but I could see her ankles, they were beautiful
and much younger than the rest of her. Dyed, red hair, face very pale,
presumable from sitting in all day writing how-to books.
Beginning, middle and an end, yes, like life, capricious in the middle,
the ending tends to write itself. Sudden endings are best, run over by
a bus, or a train crash, where cell phones go on ringing in the broken
interior. Then silence. Long ending are best being avoided, hospital bed
pages after pages, endless days, exhausted relatives.
Lovely ankles, did she paint her toenails red? She wore flat shoes
sensible for any woman over fifty. Classroom empty, they had all gone
out for lunch, I went to the pub and stayed there. Beginning, middle and
an ending, what more is there to know?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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When I Write The Book
Nick lowe/dave edmunds/billy bremner
Plangent visions music, ltd.
Now I can remember like it was only yesterday
Love was young and foolish like a little child at play
But oh how lovers change -- I never dreamed how easily
cause now Im just a shadow of the boy I used to be
And when I write the book about my love
It will be about a man whos torn in half
About his hopes and ambitions wasted through the years
The pain will be written on every page in tears
When I write the book about my love
I was a fool to myself when I kept on runnin around
And I fared little better when I tried settlin down
Maybe some magic moment
Ive never known one, not for long
For all too soon the magic is in a moment gone
And when I write the book about my love
Itll be a heartbreaking story about love and luck
When I get down on the pages all I felt
It will make the hardest-hearted of critics hearts melt
When I write the book about my love
When I was young love was fun and I was so happy
I looked so good, and I dressed so snappy
Two-tone shoes on my feet, big old smile on my face
As I moved and grooved all over the place
Now Im down in the heels, my complexion is bad
cause my love life is sadder than sad
And when I write the book about my love
Itll be a pop publication, tougher than tough
When I get down on the pages all I missed
It will shoot to the top of the best-sellers list
When I write the book about my love
song performed by by Huey Lewis And The News
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Diary
one day you shall write about a ship
in the middle of the sea
on a dark night
one day you shall write about the man
who was there without any hint
about where he is
and where he is going
you will finish writing about it
and let it stay there
until you close the pages
and declare that this is what life is all about
one day you shall open it again
and write about the man who plunged into
the middle of the sea
to find the message of its depths
whatever happens close your diary for a while
wait until you feel the switch
inside the dark room of your heart
find the sea and find the right hour to plunge just as it was written
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Am All Set With You
there is drama when i first
saw you. I ask for a woman with a
red rose on her hand
and it was you holding this
red rose one early morning
and it set the beginning
of my day with you. we married.
we stayed on.
12 years. moving on
to 25 years.
we keep the laughter
and the giggle
each night we tell
stories
how we begin
always...
in this book of love,
we do not know how to tell the story
of an ending....
perhaps we must learn to write
about a fairy tale
how to keep ourselves
happy ever after
how to say the clinching lines
of a happy ending.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I am a very linear thinker, so I write beginning to end. I write hundreds of pages per book that never make it into print.
quote by Laurell K. Hamilton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Bad Ending
you write something
you choose the words
the feelings are there
oozing
the memories are sticky
flashbacks like
scenes of a
play
you like it at the beginning
crispy and
onion flavored
you take the bite and chew
honestly
at the middle you shake
your head
your chair trembles
something is so wrong
you're impatient
you want to go to the ending
it is very bad
someone dies and people love the
murderer
it is very bad
society hates this kind of story
very unbecoming of
a narrative
but what is important
is just this plain honesty that sometimes
everything can be bad
just bad
and perhaps even so bad
gives you that feeling that you are right
and then
at the end you put a stop to words proclaiming that
a bad ending
can be so beautiful.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Why Do I Write
I write from my sadness
I write from the madness
I write because I have something to say
I write to pass the day
I write only from the heart
I write for sometimes I am not that smart
Whatever is in head just comes out on paper (in this case a word document) , and I go with the flow
Write to let my mind go
I follow my hand to where ever it takes me
I write all the things that I can see
I write when I am happy, but not as much
I write from my heart that you can touch
I write because I’d go insane
I am driven to write quell my pain
At times I feel alone so I write what I am feeling
I write for it is self-healing
Confident not so I write it all away
I write and write to pass the day
I write to comfort my soul that cries out in the night
I write for love is always out of sight
I write so I don't have to cry any more
I write for I have no one to adore
I write so someone somewhere will hear my plea
I write for someone is out there for me
I am lost and I the clown
I write to turn my frown upside down
I write to embrace the sadness I hide inside
I write with my heart opened wide
I write to silence the ghost
I write for I’ve been let down by the one I loved the most
I write through the stormy weather
I write for I am light as a feather
I am not a writer nor am I a poet
I write for the grief I do know it
I will write until I draw my last breath
I write because I'll die a lonely death
I have to write for strangers delight
I write because I have to write
I write for my own happiness
I write to relieve my stress
I write because I have no other choice
I write as if I was writing a letter
I write because I can’t do any better
I write because I am afraid not to
I write for this is what I do
I write for I give a damn
I write just because I am
poem by Wilfred Mellers
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In The Middle
IN THE MIDDLE
In the middle of the unending darkness that stretches on beyond forever
In the middle of the vast nowhere whose name has no shadow and no space
In the middle of all the generations whose anonymous past will be complemented by their overextended futures,
In the middle of the mass of nameless mankind featureless
In the middle of all that is and ever has been
In the middle of what was and will be always forever not
In the middle
In one small moment whose end is unpredictable
While the light still shines on the green green world
And the love and joy in the faces and hearts we care for still breathe
In the middle of the moment before consciousness is lost forever
Somewhere nowhere who knows where how
In the middle of all we are and will never be now
In the now of this life
I write these lines for all of us
Passing dreams
Beautiful great souls
True human beings
Better than me and you
And only me and you
For all of us
In the middle
Before the lights go out
And the endless darkness
Is silence and breathlessness
And nothing whatever real
We can feel or be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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And when I'm writing, I write a lot anyway. I might write pages and pages of conversation between characters that don't necessarily end up in the book, or in the story I'm working on, because they're simply my way of getting to know the characters.
quote by Norton Juster
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Liberty
On my books and poetry,
On my desk and on the computer
On the sand and on the beach
I write your name
On all the pages I have read
On all the blank pages
Stone bloody shed or ash
I write your name
On my greedy, tender friends
On my comrades, beloved country,
On my clumsy hands
I write your name
On my health and wealth
On the risk which disappeared
On the hope without memory
I write your name
And by the power of one word
I begin a life again
I was born to know you
To name you.
Liberty
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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To write is a challenge, But to understand the writer is a mystery
Right now I am writing history
Amongst a million other writers
But what makes me different
from that never ending million?
Every word has a meaning, has
it's background, I, on the hand don't.
Just a meaningless word, nothing more
But a word it is, nothing less
To write is a challenge
But to understand the writer is a mystery.
Right. Write only with the mind and heart.
So powerful, So strong, So moving.
Today, Tomorrow a never ending cycle.
Today becomes history when tomorrow becomes today.
So right now I am writing history
But tomorrow it becomes forgotten
It will not be forgotten if the writer has a mystery to solve, so to write is a challenge but to understand the writer is a mystery.
poem by Lady Simple
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I Can Write Poetry All Day Long
I CAN WRITE POETRY ALL DAY LONG
I can write Poetry all day long
But what will it give me?
There is just so much others will listen to
If anything?
And what is the value of writing words to myself for myself
Even if I love them
And believe they are real poetry,
And know in my soul
That their music is real?
I can write Poetry all day long
Or think I am writing poetry
When I am not-
Am I writing poetry now?
I feel I am-
Within me there is the song and the sound
There is the music of poetry
But is it real
Or only my self- deception?
Can I write poetry all day long?
Can I write poetry at all?
I am writing poetry now
Or so I tell myself-
But as I write this
The music within
Is already fading
And I hear in myself
The silence of my own lonely sound.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Write A Little
(Randy Owen/Don Cook/Ronnie Rogers)
Military mail call....
I lay out some paper, I take out my pen
Turn on my table-lamp and here I go again
It's time to write a letter, I'm in the mood tonight
Gotta find a way to tell you how I feel inside
So I write a little and I cry a little
It's so hard to find a way to say goodbye a little
But somewhere in the middle, my emotions interfere
So I write a little and cry a little tear
And I die a little, wishing you were here
God I miss you, can't be with you
I would kiss you oh so good
'Cause you're my only cure for lonely
I'd call if I could
So I write a little and I cry a little
It's so hard to find a way to say goodbye a little
But somewhere in the middle, my emotions interfere
So I write a little and cry a little tear
And I die a little, wishing you were here
Oh, I die a little wishing you were here
Wishing you were here
I'm writing and wishing you were here
I write a little and cry a little tear
I'm writing and wishing you were here
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Faded Pages
Recently I started retyping
a manuscript of short stories
I had written twenty years ago.
The pages were faded;
too much time being opened to the sun.
As I typed, I smiled
at the things I had written
and the dialogue I had created.
The stories are about a cat
and looking at the world
through his eyes and thoughts.
I had even created him a language
that I had to write a glossary
at the back of the book to explain
what some of the phrases meant.
There is a vast array of characters
and most have a funny turn.
I also remember what prompted me
to write the stories long ago.
My original intention was to write
one story and one story only,
but a friend of mine at the time
persuaded me to write another and another.
Before long, a volume was finished
with enough stories to start another.
From a one off story I have written over sixty now
about the cat and all his friends.
Now as I flick through these faded pages,
which I haven’t read in years,
I find myself being reunited
with many long lost friends.
26 January 2009
poem by David Harris
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I Write And Write And Write And Write
I WRITE AND WRITE AND WRITE AND WRITE
I write and write and write and write
I write and write and write and write
I write.
And all this writing and all these words and all I am
Forever unheard.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Book
If I write a book,
Would I approach
You to write its
Review?
Why?
If my book is
Worth reading,
Wouldn't you be
Tempted to write
Its review?
Why should I
Use you for its
Marketing and
Publicity?
If you like my book,
You'll yourself feel like
Sharing with everybody
It's an instinct
That comes
Naturally…
We believe in
Loving and giving,
And so if we genuinely
Like something,
We'll recommend it
Or choose it for gifting
So if I write a book,
I'll never beseech you
To write its review
I would rather wait
For you to feel free
To read it and perhaps
Write its review…
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Open Book's Monologue Part 2: Perpetual
Perpetual
Eternal
Immutable
Irrevocable
Enduring
Etched in stone
Engraved with blood
The words of an open book remain
The book cannot write itself, but it is a series of stain after stain
Of ink and blood to paper writing a story that cannot be changed
Nor altered, nor made a happy, if tragedy destined to be
Tragedy it shall be, and tragedy for me
If love to be, it shall be, but this will not come
If death to be, it shall be, and shall always come, for all things under the sun
Will one day perish, wither, and die
One day decay will find this spine, and air make page fly
One day ink will fade
Destroying all that was so carefully made
But this is not the cruelty
The cruelty is that the story is immutable
The ending certain
The cruelty is a book is unalterable
The ending the book strives for- in vain
It is GIVEN an ending, with which it has no say
And to this end it SHALL come one day
poem by David Knox
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Empty Pages
(graham russell)
When youre out in front and your life is unsure
What have you got goin for you after every road you turn
Its magic when you tell me and run your fingers through my hair
I dont need your persuasion, cos Im already there
Ive just read it through and I said to myself
Thats not really you, Ill keep myself to myself
Its magic when you tell me, and write the words I want to see
When I reach the last line, its just empty for me
Ive been learning so long, about the things you do
Ive been learning so long about you, about you
(chorus)
Empty pages Ive read you all through
Empty pages filled with spaces I fell in and I fell in
Empty pages Ive read you all through
Empty pages filled with spaces I fell in and I fell in.
song performed by by Air Supply
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Empty Page
(graham russell)
When you're out in front and your life is unsure
What have you got goin' for you after every road you turn
It's magic when you tell me and run your fingers through my hair
I don't need your persuasion, cos i'm already there
I've just read it through and i said to myself
That's not really you, i'll keep myself to myself
It's magic when you tell me, and write the words i want to see
When i reach the last line, it's just empty for me
I've been learning so long, about the things you do
I've been learning so long about you, about you
(chorus)
Empty pages i've read you all through
Empty pages filled with spaces i fell in and i fell in
Empty pages i've read you all through
Empty pages filled with spaces i fell in and i fell in.
song performed by by Air Supply
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Write
Write, keep writing lot
Write, write before you forget
Write, make it as reminder
Write, write before words disappear
Write, for you to contemplate
Write, write before your mind changed
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Never Ending
(words & music by kaye - springer)
Walk down to the beach at sunset
Look as far as you can see
You will find that endless ocean
And thats how my love will always be
I bring you never ending, never ending
Never ending, never ending
Never ending, never ending love
Look up at the sky at midnight
Gaze up on the starlit view
Just as heaven has no boundaries
Neither does my love for you
I bring you never ending, never ending
Never ending, never ending
Never ending, never ending love
Never ending love
Never ending love
Never ending love
Never ending love
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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