When Tiptree wrote, she wasn’t extrapolating. She was responding. She always was. Her fiction is as harsh as the truth.
There’s advice everywhere about how to write more, or find new photos, or set challenges to create new things. That’s not what I need. I need a way to shut out all the new stuff, so I can find a more meaningful image or write a better story.
Some days are loud and you can’t bear the sound of your own buzzing thoughts. These are the days that you know you won’t try.
I’ve stood there. Same stones. Same sky. But that guy stood there too. He came out of his house of film and captured my world. And then he turned it around and showed it to me.
I asked them if they needed help. They seemed to say ‘please leave us be’.
And now that the world has lost such a fine mind, a novelist, a scientist, a local, and a woman with a way with words, I can only stare numbly at the gap in my bookshelf.
At hour 11, just to keep pushing, I found myself writing when I had forgotten how to write a proper sentence. How can that be good for me? Because, despite that, I was still writing.
We all have our natural inclinations, but it doesn’t have to be the whole of us.
I don’t know her name. Oh, how I wish I did. I would hunt her down, hold her in my arms and pepper her forehead with the gentlest of kisses.
Why encouraging ‘the quiet ones’ to get involved is not always the right approach. Who are they? What are they? Why are they lurking?