Each morning my characters greet me with misty faces willing, though chilled, to muster for another day's progress through the dazzling quicksand the marsh of blank paper.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
What I remember when I started to write was how I couldn't wait to get up in the morning to get to my characters.
Her face betokened all things dear and good, The light of somewhat yet to come was there Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, When childish thoughts, like flowers would drift away.
I have this wholesome disposition in a lot of my characters. A certain earnestness.
I want a character to wake up one day and feel like, 'I can face it'. That, to me, is happy. I want the characters to rescue themselves, though you use the relationships you have, to make you strong enough to be able to do that.
I hope the wonder of what happens to my characters never goes away. That yearning keeps me writing.
Time's stern tide, with cold Oblivion's wave, Shall soon dissolve each fair, each fading charm.
Whatever brief delights it provides, mere strangeness in poetry and prose eventually leaves us cold, especially when we suspect the writer is stretching for effect to avoid the actual life before his eyes.
Faces that have charmed us the most escape us the soonest.
I have written a raucous valentine to a poet's dream and agony.
When I'm happiest writing is just not knowing where it goes and just let the characters bring you there.
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