women-writers

She was rare, few and far betweenShe suspected he would be as wellAnd the thought of two rare, few and far between individualsDoing all that was necessary for that rare, few and far between Meeting to occurDrove her to write

I didn't come looking for you the day you uninvitedly appeared on my doorstepHow did we go from nonchalant conversation me waiting for you to turn me off with corny jokes and mind dumbing conversationto loveTo love and mind blowing chemistry that I've yet to make sense of What are you here to teach me?

I prefer to be on the side of losers, the misunderstood or lonely people rather than writing about the strong and powerful.

Live your life in such a way that you'll be remembered for your kindness, compassion, fairness, character, benevolence, and a force for good who had much respect for life, in general.

If I ask you to think about something, you can decide not to. But if I make you feel something? Now I have your attention.

Before there were books, we read each other.

When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Bronte who dashed her brains out on the moor or mopped and mowed about the highways crazed with the torture that her gift had put her to. Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

Women writers make for rewarding (and efficient) lovers. They are clever liars to fathers and husbands; yet they never hold their tongues too long, nor keep ardent typing fingers still.

A man once asked me ... how I managed in my books to write such natural conversation between men when they were by themselves. Was I, by any chance, a member of a large, mixed family with a lot of male friends? I replied that, on the contrary, I was an only child and had practically never seen or spoken to any men of my own age till I was about twenty-five. "Well," said the man, "I shouldn't have expected a woman (meaning me) to have been able to make it so convincing." I replied that I had coped with this difficult problem by making my men talk, as far as possible, like ordinary human beings. This aspect of the matter seemed to surprise the other speaker; he said no more, but took it away to chew it over. One of these days it may quite likely occur to him that women, as well as men, when left to themselves, talk very much like human beings also.

The depths of her thoughts will have you never wanting to surface for air...

What wouldn__ my people give for a few bites of the biryani she ordered me to throw away yesterday because she said it smelt?

I am protective of the gentle slope of stomach bulging like an early pregnancy, at my waist. I've earned its existence with everything I've been forced to swallow.

The problem is not that Women think, the problem is that they think that they THINK!

You'll be amazed how much you have in common with Edith Wharton (who struggled to feel worthy of success), Louisa May Alcott (who badly needed money), Madaleine L'Engle (who could have papered an entire house with her rejection letters) and other writers...

Being a writer means you get to live vicariously through your characters

Name?" the desk clerk said to me politely, her pencil poised."Name," I said vaguely. I remembered, and told her."Age?" she asked. "Sex? Occupation?""Writer," I said."Housewife," she said."Writer," I said."I'll just put down housewife," she said.

If a writer starts worring about what he or she has left out or forgotten, they might not be able to write even a single line.

Fantasy like thought that no man could rainJust let her reignRun wild with her unafraidOf any rain stormsThey only wash the mud away and make wayFor double rainbows and sunny days