Sam(antha)
21
writer

Let's be friends, yeah?

so does anyone else Google “em dash” and copy/paste from the text of the first result or—

Mar 19th at 4PM / tagged: writing. em dash. a day in the life. / reblog / 3 notes

“There have been no lack of important and memorable characters created by male writers—at least, not in the past. Sophocles created terrific women characters; Shakespeare, too. Emma Bovary is why Flaubert called his novel Madame Bovary. (Who can even remember Charles?) Hester Prynne is what makes The Scarlet Letter so strong. Hardy’s Tess is both heroine and victim. Estella and Miss Havisham are more memorable from Great Expectations than Pip; maybe Magwitch (or Jaggers) is the most memorable character in that novel.
But so much of contemporary fiction is plagued by being memoir-based; so-called autobiographical novels lack a lot of imagination. What I’m saying is that male novelists and playwrights should be able to imagine and realize female characters; the writers of the past did so, routinely.
I don’t think it’s remarkable that my female characters loom large, and are strongly represented in my novels; what surprises me is the lack of imagination in many contemporary novels and plays. It’s what comes of writing about yourself.”

John Irving, when asked by a fan how he’s able to write such multi-dimensional female characters  [x]

yeah yeah step right up, give me a dollar and i’ll give you a flowery descriptive line of prose about your eyes

i should start taking writing commissions from people if that’s even a thing

like reverse-freelance

instead of me begging you to take my content and pay me for it, you ask me to write a thing and give me money

goddamn it it works for artists on tumblr

the best insult i ever witnessed during a writing workshop was when my professor once told a dude in our class that he wrote sex scenes like a virgin.

  • Every freshman workshop fiction piece ever: John Smith woke up and turned off his alarm clock, stretching his five-foot-ten frame. He walked to the mirror and blinked his blueish-purple eyes that changed color in the light and dragged a comb through his medium-length curly brown hair like every day for the past 16 years and two months.
  • Every senior workshop fiction piece ever: John Smith was jolted out of a deep slumber by the shrill shout of his alarm clock. He sauntered his tall body toward the mirror, staring into his own kyanite-colored eyes. John frowned at his unfastidious hair, the color of a brown bear, that had grown from his scalp since he was born, 16 years ago.

A professional playwright told me today that I have a natural gift for writing, she was tremendously impressed with my talent, and that I’m a rockstar.

Retribution

    We’re at the pastry place and I don’t make my joke about the plain cookies, about how the people who buy them deserve to be shot.

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