Signposts

i can’t write like that. i can’t string my words like pearls like you do. i just spill them on the floor, where you eventually trip over them. i don’t know how to express my emotions in ways other than This Happened and I Felt. most days, i feel awkward and juvenile and plain.

maybe that’s why i don’t say as much. i just sit back and listen and watch and imagine and feel. sometimes i feel too much and it overwhelms me, and i am paralyzed. stunned.

and like most everything else, this has nothing to do with anything at all. what i really want to say is stuck at the tip of my tongue, at the edge of my mind, right there, but i can’t think of the right words.

i can’t think of any words.

i just wish i could open the door to my insides and let you see for yourself.

— Christine Castro Hughes, “Fragment #100”  <link>

You can see only as far as your headlights…

Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.

— E.L. Doctorow  <link>

What the artist wishes to do—as far as you are concerned—is to take you out of yourself. As far as he is concerned, he wishes to express himself.

— Ford Madox Ford  <link>

Only two classes of books are of universal appeal: the very best and the very worst.

— Ford Madox Ford  <link>