Living Lines and Written Rhymes

A lovely accumulation of book reviews, writing articles, quotes, submitted works, and appreciation for the written word, particularly YA fiction, poetry, and journalism.

“If you read one book a week, starting at the age of 5, and live to be 80, you will have read a grand total of 3,900 books, a little over one-tenth of 1 percent of the books currently in print.”

—   

The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop, Lewis Buzbee

Book Geek Quote #548

(via bookgeekconfessions)

Thats it, I’m never gonna be able to read all the books! What with hundreds of books published every year and all.. There goes my dream! 

(via thewrittenroad)

(via thewrittenroad)

“There are galaxies
hidden behind
all of our eyes
and the parameters
of our bodies
cannot stop us
from exploring them.”

—   Brittany Rubio, Pioneers (via aestheticintrovert)

(via aestheticintrovert)

“Writing is a small puppy biting void
writing wounds without drawing blood”

—   Mahmoud Darwish, from “A State of Siege” (tr. by Fady Joudah), in The Butterfly’s Burden. Copper Canyon Press, 2006 (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

(Source: metaphorformetaphor, via mooneyedandglowing)

teachingliteracy:

maddieonthings: Taking to higher ground in Pittsburgh, PA

teachingliteracy:

maddieonthings: Taking to higher ground in Pittsburgh, PA

(via 90daywrite)

maxkirin:

Neil Gaiman’s 8 Rules of Writing, a remake of this post. Source.

Want more writerly content? Make sure to follow maxkirin.tumblr.com for your daily dose of writer positivity, advice, and prompts!

(via maxkirin)

Phantom Love Syndrome

writingsforwinter:

Once, we felt one another’s bodies the same way rain feels the ground.

This was the same year the neighbors caught a lone wheelchair

rolling down the pavement next to their driveway

in the middle of a windstorm so strong

it tore off all their house’s siding.

There was no one in that wheelchair, just a phantom body,

just a collection of phantom limbs.

And we fell upon each other inside our own damaged house,

while the wind howled outside the walls,

tongues finding mouths and mouths finding hips,

both of us beautiful together like a full moon

before it wanes into a crescent.

Strange, how even the living fight with the dead

long after the dead are gone from the living.

We loved each other so hard inside that bed

that it could have left holes inside the wood, and maybe it also left

holes inside our skins, so that when we finally fell apart,

the wind came through us too.

It was only years later, after that storm had ended,

the wheelchair had been sent away to a hospital

to be used with someone other than the previous owner,

and we had split apart and lived halfway across the world

from one another without ever having spoken since

that I finally understood:

the whole time we were together we were just phantom limbs-

using one another to fill time

until we finally found the other bodies we were meant to be with

just like that wheelchair left its owner to do the same.

(via writingsforwinter)