If you do not lend your car, your fountain pen or your wife to anyone, that is because these objects, according to the logic of jealously, are narcissistic equivalents of the ego: to lose them, or for them to be damaged, means castration.
Maybelline's Precise Ink Pen Liner is by far the easiest liquid eyeliner I've ever used. I'm really bad at applying liquid liner, and it glides on so nicely and actually stays on all day.
How do you solve a mystery? How do you write a book? The techniques for starting both are surprisingly similar. Find an intriguing question and, pen and dagger tucked under cloak, search for clues.
You are just in the middle of a struggle with words which are really very stubborn things, with a blank page, with the damn thing that you use to write with, a pen or a typewriter, and you forget all about the reader when you are doing that.
I remember the days of sitting at book signings, playing with my pen when no one would come, and still I even then thought I was living the dream, because I had a book out.
The idea of a pseudonym had been flitting around my brain for a long time, along with its cognate, disappearance. In the 1980s, I published some poems under a pen name in a literary magazine to see what it would feel like. It was fun. It was even a l...
Dec: Billy, I understand you've got a prize for our competition winners. Billy Mack: Yes I have, Ant or Dec. It's a - it's a personalized felt tip pen.
Ruby McNutt: You didn't write to me for over a year. What was I supposed to think? Auggie Wren: Yeah well, I lost my pen. By the time I got a new one, I was clean outa paper.
Sarah Connor: You're a doctor? Dr. Peter Silberman: [yawning] Criminal psychologist. Sarah Connor: Is Reese crazy? Dr. Peter Silberman: Well, that's what we're gonna find out. [clicks his pen]
For the last 15 years that I have been performing, all I ever wanted to do was transcend poetry to the world. See, it wasn't enough for me to write a book. It wasn't enough for me to join a slam competition, and while those things hold weight, it was...
I keep two sentimental mementos on my desk to remind me of two favorite men. There is an inkwell that my Uncle Seymour made, a brass grotesque he mounted on a marble base. And my grandfather's shaving cup is there, used to store pencils and pens.
A match as a pen Blood on the floor as ink The forgotten gauze cover as paper But what should I write? I might just manage my address This ink is strange; it clots I write you from a prison in Greece
Believing this country to be a political and not a religious organisation ... the editor of the NATIONAL CITIZEN will use all her influence of voice and pen against 'Sabbath Laws', the uses of the 'Bible in School', and pre-eminently against an amend...
I am violently untidy. My desk is overcrowded. I write my first drafts in longhand in a long notebook using a plastic throwaway fountain pen. Then I work on a word processor using a different desk and a different room.
A pen is neither good nor bad. It’s what you do with it that makes it a weapon of war or a tool of peace. Likewise, love is neither good nor bad. It’s what you do with it that makes it the ultimate punishment or the greatest reward.
I’ve learned to fall like the BJJ player, to protect the body through controlling the distribution of force by slapping the mat with hands open. With hands open. Hands open. Open. O Pen.
The writer who loses his self-doubt, who gives way as he grows old to a sudden euphoria, to prolixity, should stop writing immediately: the time has come for him to lay aside his pen.
A story unwritten is without beginning or end. But in its potential lies another story; and in the heartbeat before pen meets page, both stories exist at once, reflecting endless permutations of the other, before one of them disappears forever.
I’ve had a fountain pen surgically implanted in my left index finger to save trouble. My body is tattooed with line upon line of truth, fiction, and a not-always-pleasing mix of the two.
I speak, I speak, and truth at that. Writers are a curious breed: brooding, fickle, alternately loving and hating their work—and each other. You’re my friend? Don’t pick up that pen!
Now you're just being silly. He's a mercenary- he's not going to go about penning love letters, and really, what would he write? 'Anna...love you...grrr?'" Olivia to Annalia
