Quotes

What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?

What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?  — Robert Schuller

Note from Marlene: You talk, right? And you think, right? Therefore, you can write. I just know it!

Hand & PenSet yourself up for writing with paper, pen or pencil, or computer and keyboard. Choose a prompt. Set a timer for 12 minutes. And Just Write!

 

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2 comments

  1. Ke11y

    The season of love first opened for me at seventeen; the age of hopes and fantasies, and so it was my story began. But I’m no longer seventeen, having grown up beyond hopes and fantasies. It is now the muse that touches my lips with hers, and through those lips comes something electrical, something blue, and in this momentary touching of tongues the poet in me is reawakened; the true romantic, in love with ideal beauty. Ah yes, at seventeen I was a boy who held out for love, for hope, for springtime, and each came slowly; like cows across a meadow, the smell of milking on the air. That’s how it has always been for me; a life developing, slowly, passions… deep passions never hurried or broken. So when the kiss of the muse came, it did so as if a bolt of lightning. Gone is the warm evening air, the cows across the meadow, this is raw, open and honest inspiration; a one chance trick, like taking a rabbit from the hat and no-one quite understanding how it is done! Yes, it is like that, a brush of lips, like dew-laden lilac tips, sensual and wet and wanting. My own lips faltered, shrank faintly, and then opened, accepting the muse’s gift of sensual pleasure.

    The tearful tincture of memory replays this teenage kiss, almost exact, as if my muse enjoys her game with me. But seventeen has become seventy. Two people, not teenagers, caught in a moment’s ray of desire, a streak of aching tenderness in a long marriage. It is a cruelly precious passion that releases teenage sniggers, unaware that even in old age such a thing is so sweet.

    I was born, raised, and loved. I’ve had a thousand electric butterflies settle on my lips. Anointed time and time again by many of life’s moments of romantic tenderness. So when my time comes, let me pass having lived with grace, but once or twice shamed myself, let me become old in time, to die in my favorite chair, with my pen in hand writing about a man who flew, and sailed, and knew not nearly enough about love, or erotica, or the raising of children.

    Let those who live on retain a certain love for me.

    1. mcullen Post author

      Beautiful, beautiful writing, Kelly. The last two lines are lovely, poignant, and electric. The whole piece is memorable.

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