Tag Archives: writing

Come on in…

THE ESTHER WILLIAMS AQUA SPECTACLE — Pictured: Actress/swimmer Esther Williams — Photo by: Herb Ball/NBC/NBCU Photo Bank

Come on in, the water is just fine! I’ve taken a leap today. I have a project that for many, many moons has been so near to my heart. I have held it and nurtured it and built upon it. I just kept dipping my toes in the water, I don’t know why?

I suppose that when it’s just yours, you can continue to dream about all the things it will become. But, this is a dream that I want to share and fingers crossed, I’ll get lucky.

So, I’ve jumped in with both feet and you know what? The water’s just fine. It’s a start, no matter what happens.

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The Written Word Endures #1

Emma Stone Reading

I recently read a post on Cup of Jo, the focus of which was a discussion on the most beautiful sentence or paragraph that you’ve ever read. That drew my attention, as I’m often marking sections of a book I’m reading or making a mental note of page numbers, to be able to go back to a favourite sentence or paragraph and write it down.

I have the great fortune of getting to read a lot while I’m traveling around London and my choice of genres is always varying. I thought I would begin a new series on this blog as a journal of sorts to record lines and words and paragraphs that have stayed with me. I’m entitling it: The Written Word Endures, which is taken from a Neil Postman quote.

Travels with Charley Cover

 

I went to the small restaurant run in conjunction. It was all plastic too — the table linen, the butter dish. The sugar and crackers were wrapped in cellophane, the jelly in a small plastic coffin sealed with cellophane. It was early evening and I was the only customer. Even the waitress wore a sponge-off apron. She wasn’t happy, but then she wasn’t unhappy. She wasn’t anything. But I don’t believe anyone is a nothing. There has to be something inside, if only to keep the skin from collapsing. This vacant eye, listless hand, this damask cheek dusted like a doughnut with plastic powder, had to have a memory or a dream.

-John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley