I met in the street a very poor young man who was in love. His hat was old, his coat worn, his cloak was out at the elbows, the water passed through his shoes—and the stars through his soul.
Les Misérables, Victor Hugo
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Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink.
Drink and be filled up.
On Writing, Stephen King -
Sowing chances, picking choices
Sowing chances, picking choices
Sowing chances, picking choices
Do not say I am fickle
For I am not so,
Nor did I promise to stay
I watered the seeds
Of your chance-taking,
Sunned my leaves
And now flowers have bloomed.
They were for you, you know.
I chanced my questions then,
Knowing of others who sought
Bright petals, soft and open
In that secret night-time hour.
Would you take the blossoms,
Nourish and care for them
And pick them at their height?
Or will you forget
What you have sown, let
Strangers steal their beauty?
Time is running out.
I will not linger.
I may pluck them myself
And you will find me gone. -
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Waiting patiently doesn’t suit you. I can see you have a great deal of water in your personality. Water never waits. It changes shape and flows around things, and finds the secret paths no one else has thought about.
Mameha, Memoirs of a Geisha, Arthur Golden
