The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
The moving finger writes, and having written moves on. Nor all thy piety nor all thy wit, can cancel half a line of it.
Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers.
What can't be said can be written. Because writing is a silent act, a labor from the head to the hand.
Writing is a way of drifting within my own mind: almost a solitary process, so to speak.
In anything you write - in a short story, a poem - there has to be a counter-motion; it can't go all in one direction.
If your writing collides with the conventional wisdom, there's going to be some kind of friction.
A writer stops writing the moment he or she puts the last full stop to their text, and at that point the book is in limbo and doesn't come to life until the reader picks it up and the reader flips the pages.
Texting is fingered speech. Now we can write the way we talk.
Once you start writing something obsessively, it's almost like someone has to rip it from your hands in order for you to put it down.
Keep your hands moving. Writing is rewriting.