(via lhightening)
“I loved you like certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.”— Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets: XVII
“Writing is a matter of experimentation. And all writers do a lot of revision. […] you keep rewriting to find the rhythm and the voice that’s suitable for that story.”— Joyce Carol Oates
If you decide to rebrand yourself and get a new personality, new habits, new connections, nobody can stop you. You hold all the power.
(via stabilised)
(via snowishy)
(via godlymatt)
“He’s a writer. She’s a character inspired by his interactions with a hitchhiker. In the 1957 portion, we see the typewriter in two different lights. One of those is him writing her into existence. We can’t see the words, but it’s inter-cut with the visual story. The other “Doll face and dancing” is internal to that story, I think.
He starts to believe she is real but the splash of cold water on his face wakes him from this. We see his confusion in the following scenes alternating when they are in the woods together or just he is in the woods alone. Is it his dream, his memory, or his story?
The problem is that he has also written himself into this story and if it turns out that she isn’t real, well, what is he? He’s not even that certain. He’s typed out “Milo Greene is real” but maybe he is rejecting this notion because we see this is among the papers sinking to the bottom of the lake.
Back at home he tries to focus on his writing, pulling out a notebook and a pencil in contrast to the typewriter. But it isn’t enough. She’s still on his mind and in the room with him (as the typewriter) (25:52).
Two possibilities from here. Either he gets frustrated with her and finally gives in when he walks to the typewriter. His anger ruins the fantasy and to him the character dies lonely and neglected. Or, she reads her own story at the typewriter, realizes she’s a fiction and does herself in. Either way, she’s not really dead because she’s not really there. When he goes to bury her he finds the trunk empty.
But this is a process he repeats. We know this because earlier we see a grave half-filled with dirt as if it’s collapsed over time. Surely he’ll repeat it again.“
"I nearly always write — just as I nearly always breathe."- John Steinbeck (via writingdotcoffee)
(via writingdotcoffee)
(via snowishy)
(via understands)
(via snowishy)
“Such a great feeling when someone just genuinely wants to talk to you and wants to know how your life is going.”—