“I want to be the one you choose when everyone else wants you”
— (via permeate)
Photos, Gifs, quotes, and aids I'm saving for reference as I attempt to write a novel.
Noun
[ob-luh-ves-uh ns]
1. the process of forgetting.
Origin:
Oblivescence dates from the late 19th century and is a later spelling of obliviscence, which dates from the late 18th century. The spelling oblivescence arose by influence of the far more common suffix -escence. The English noun is a derivative of the Latin verb oblīviscī “to forget,” literally “to wipe away, smooth over.” The Latin verb is composed of the prefix ob- “away, against” and the same root as the adjective lēvis “smooth.”
“Would that our sins had built-in qualities of oblivescence such as our dreams have.”
- Iris Murdoch, A Word Child, 1975
“Emily Brontë’s voice is full of violence. Everything takes place in the inner landscape and the poet pours out passion, hope, despair, ecstasy, an uncensored range of emotions. She pits her mind and her heart against death. In many ways Emily Bronte belongs to the period and is historically a Romantic poet. In the deepest ways, however, she belongs only to herself.”
Louise Bernikow, from “The world split open: four centuries of women poets in England and America, 1552-1950,”
Anonymous asked: Politics. Politics everywhere. My character’s in a situation where there’s a lot of political and social problems that’s verging on a world war. Can you give some tips on how to write and handle politics?
You can find out more here and here. The latter link is about creating a pseudo-medieval court, but it works for any centralized government.
“I desire the things which will destroy me in the end.”
— Sylvia Plath (via girlrejectsgod)
it is tiring, being endless political just as someone existing. my teacher asks me if i’m writing more of that “feminist poetry.” a lot of it is just talking about me, being a woman, being afraid in the city. i write about walking a line, about how i am expected to choose between home and work, how each comes with a slew of its own insults; how it feels when i am wearing shorts and there are too many men outside. these are just facts of my life. someone in the comments says, “where are woman even coming up with these crazy generalizations in their feminism?”
i hold hands with the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen and someone sighs when they see me. “do they have to make everything gay?” she asks her friend, loudly, “like, do you have to force those views in my face all the time?” i can’t stop blushing. my girlfriend holds my fingers tighter, tighter, tighter, until my knuckles are white, and i let her. somehow, this is us, protesting.
my father’s cuban blood stains my skin, i think. when i am honored with a position in the dean’s private council, a boy sneers, “you only got in because you’re hispanic.” did i? i spend the rest of our meetings wondering if i was selected for my stellar academic record, for the multiple recommendations, for the clubs i lead - or if i was just a move the dean made, to make use of me. when we all take a picture, the dean brings me in the front. in the first three we take, i am not smiling.
it is odd. “i exist.” i say, “i deserve to exist.”
“oh my god,” he groans, “we get it, you’re a feminist.”
“You were unsure which pain is worse - the shock of what happened or the ache for what never will.”
—
Simon Van Booy, Everything Beautiful Began After
