Ak Writes Quotes

Here's another test. Of any activity you do, aks yourself: If I were the last person on earth, would I still do it?

A great writer is a blitzed illusionist of portable magic. You're welcome.

I don't believe in writers' block. Do doctors have 'doctors block?' Do plumbers have 'plumbers' block?" No. We all have days when we don't feel like working, but why do writers turn that into something so damn special by giving it a faintly romantic name.

Oh, sweet cherry tree- how lovely your blossoms are. Spring brings joy to life.

The image is an example of how horror writers view our world. A view that is far from the norm. Their writing always seeking that visceral fear in us all.

He who writes is the martyr, seen through the eyes of the unassuming doll.

Only those who’re high on the herb can truly appreciate Marley. Lean back, enjoy life and really listen to him. '…every little thing gonna be alright…

Time is tick, tick, ticking away. How many souls will I capture today? Will they be a challenge or will they be given? Only time will tell as the clock keeps tick, tick, ticking. Your god has arrived with enough hatred for y’all, with enough evil for the big and small, so come one, come all. I will shred your souls and place them in my satchel, call you a settler and make you my peddler. Come one, come all, come stand behind your god. I will lead you into the darkness of Earth's end. Come one, come all, my wilted flowers, come claim your title, speak out and cheer it. Come one, come all, let’s have a ball, my wilted flowers . . . Sweet, Unconquerable Spirits.

You want self-knowledge? You should come to America. Just as the Mahatma had to go to jail and sit behind bars to write his autobiography. Or Nehru had to go to England to discover India. Things are clear only when looked at from a distance.

Lan, through her stories, was also traveling in a spiral. As I listened, there would be moments when the story would change-- not much, just a minuscule detail, the time of day, the color of someone's shirt, two air raids instead of three, an AK-47 instead of a 9mm, the daughter laughing, not crying. Shifts in narrative would occur-- the past never a fixed and dormant landscape but one that is re-seen. Whether we want to or not, we are traveling in a spiral, we are creating something new from what is gone.

The word 'NO' is the best motivation there is for the storyteller in you.

I don't know about you, but love and marriage helps me write better. Why? My wife expects a bigger ring. Duh!

We all obsess over our novel’s first lines, and rightly so because from it the rest of the story must flow naturally and without pause.

I'm finally coming to terms with the unalloyed insanity of being a writer. Now that's coming out.

Your love and your love of literature, like song, should flow seamlessly in an unbroken rhythm.

Horror writers...trouble writing? The Force cannot help you. You must tap into the dark side.

You'll never know if you've created or will create that one story worth a million dollars. Keep writing!

Keep writing. It's all terrible in the beginning.

Writing to me is like hitting the herb. No problems, Mon. No worries.

Why do I write fact-based fiction? With secrecy so inscrutable, I'm looking to needle someone about someone or something.

True writers have multiple personalities. Every one of them is insane.

My fingers burn behind the keys of my typewriter, the lettering fading with every thoughtful strike. The many words I write I dare not stall; my mind perpetually alert for my magnum opus call.

For every work of fiction, the author inserts a bit of themself to make the story seem more real. For every work of nonfiction, the edges of reality must be blurred creatively to keep the reader's interest.

Pretty trippy writing in a fog. I wrote some of the most beautiful shit I had ever written in my life, but you or I will never know what I wrote. I had no typewriter ribbon in my typewriter. Pretty trippy writing in a fog.

Buford, my beloved vintage 1930’s Underwood Universal Champion Portable typewriter. You are both my writing partner and my best friend. This journey you and I have been on has been fun. Although in 2016 you gave me carpal tunnel. In both hands. Didn’t think I knew it was you, did you? You sneaky sombitch.

I'm a person who is unpractical and idealistic. A rebellious dreamer plagued by night terrors. An affinity for the story of Superman, drinking, sex, jazz, writing, drugs, activism, golf, family, cooking, eating good food, reading books and savoring their hypnotic bouquet, for me, is like stumbling over a rock and recovering my equilibrium. This is the story of me.

We American's are the example of insanity. Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. We vote Republican; again buying the line that they are deficit hawks and, when in power, they both feast on our blood and treasure and stuff their coffers with sweat literally from our brows. Again, fed up, we elect Democrats and they repair what the Republicans purposely and yet strategically managed to do. Then, like a Phoenix rising from the ashes with renewed youth, the Republican deficit hawks emerge; spoon feeding us the same old bullshit until we bend to their will. We, in turn, vote them to power and, yet again, the ravenous lot feeds. This year...this era, however, they're governing like Kamikaze pilots, not giving one bit of damn about either public opinion nor their place in government. I believe that they see the writing on the wall and, with much fervor, are seeking to grab everything they can get their greedy little hands on. Will we ever get off this hamster wheel, my fellow Americans?

Gregory writes of Armageddon as if the Devil is getting off on using him literally to write that iniquitous beast into existence, into the flesh. I believe both Gregory and Jamie Stillingsworth are being used as vessels to bring about the end of days.

My mind set off in fear and trepidation. Where are the babies and girls in Trump's gulag? I'm a speculative fiction writer. I write horror. There are entirely too many scenarios to mention that gravely concern this iniquitous policy.

A writers life is, in a nutshell, arduous. The journey, however, wholly fulfilling. Take time to celebrate life. To embrace love. To relish those small victories for they are indeed rare for a storyteller. To wholeheartedly pursue your happiness unapologetically. In the end, both you and your literature, in an unbroken rhythm, will be seamlessly integrated.

President Trump, I'm offering to write your memoir. I even have a couple of working titles​ for the project: THIS SHIT IS HARD or REALITY IS A BITCH.

I am much more than what you see. An artist who can wow you with a tasty squid ink tortellini and weave a tall tale.

Why do I write using a vintage 1938 Underwood Universal/Champion Portable? It's simple: I like the SOUND of my words.

We're all in a steel cage, jousting for literary relevance among a sea of true talent. Our way out of this Thunderdome is not through any given contract by any given publisher. Our way out, the key needed to escape said cage is in our sui generis ability to tell the shit out of a story. Go forward, woke.

You would think that I'm a lucky man because of how far I've managed to get in my writing career. You would be wrong. I am standing in the shadow of my luck.

Does your mind endlessly feel like an outcast in a fog of noise? Try typing something. Anything. If that noise stops, you're a writer.

The Trump administration would do well to hire some fiction writers. Those of us who write horror are the cons. Those writing any other genre are the pros. Either way, we know how the story will end.

Writing, for me, is the easiest thing in the world to do. Just kidding!

To be a writer is to be forever burdened by the endless tug of war between that of your craft and your life.

The dictionary is the ONLY place where success comes before work. To hell with the detractors. Keep writing, reading, dreaming, succeeding, etcetera.

My breath may smell like two inches from a landfill, but I'm a decent writer and one hell of a chef.

Many authors swear cats are lucky. Afflatus for the writing process. I, however, see right through their evil asses.

Ever had a dream of flying? Being something more? For me, it is an endless objective. A welcomed reverie.

If you are writing a scene involving sex and you are not balls to the walls horny, that scene sucks.

The most striking fact concerning the pharmacological manuals is that the majority of them were written in al-Andalus (az-ZahrawI, Ibn Beklaresh, Ibn ‘Abdun), or by writers of Andalusian birth working in the Middle East (Maimonides, Ibn al-Baitar). It is likely that a substantial body of speakers of a variety of Berber akin to Tashelhit lived in al-Andalus, and that al-Andalus is the place where this language was first committed to writing. [29] That there were indeed Berbers in Spain who spoke a Tashelhit-like language is shown by the fact that at the end of the 15th century, as a consequence of the reconquista, a group or groups of berberophones are known to have migrated from Spain to the Sous in southern Morocco, where they became known as the ‘people of the ship’ (ayt uyrrabu). One of them is Sa‘id al-Kurrami (Seid Ak'w'rramu, d. 882/1477-8), who is reputed to be the last surviving Berber scholar who had received his schooling in Granada.[30] The Andalusian Arabic loanwords which are still found in Tashelhit, such as Imri ‘mirror’, Ikiyd ‘paper’, lixrt ‘hereafter’, ssisit ‘bonnet’, etc., also point to a connection between Tashelhit and al-Andalus. 29. On Berbers in al-Andalus in general see de Felipe, 1993 and 1997. (DE Felipe, Helena. 1993. ‘Berbers in the Maghreb and al-Andalus: Settlements and Toponomy.’ The Maghreb Review XVIII, pp. 57-62. ) 30. Cf. Justinard, 1933, pp. 220-224. "MEDIEVAL BERBER ORTHOGRAPHY" - MELANGES OFFERTS A KARL-G. PRASSE (pp. 357-377).

IN THE EARLY DAYS OF THE CHURCH, the nature of angels caused some confusion. Writing in the second century, Justin Martyr thought that fallen angels had denser bodies than the good angels, and that they actually ate a special kind of food (Psalm 78:25; Psalm 105:40). The word angel is also deceiving. Deriving from the Hebrew mal'ak or the Greek angelos, it signifies “messenger,” or “envoy,” which indicates more of a function than a nature. Today, the Church teaches that angels are incorporeal spiritual beings. Saint Augustine says: “‘Angel’ is the name of their office, not of their nature. If you seek the name of their nature, it is ‘spirit’; if you seek the name of their office, it is ‘angel’: from what they are, ‘spirit,’ from what they do, ‘angel.’“ There has been much

as well. “I’d never seen a crowd like that in a gallery,” Donald Baechler says. “I remember Edit deAk showing up for the opening. She was writing for Artforum. At that moment, she and Rene Ricard

Does it have lyrics?” He asked, humming the melody under his breath, his brain clearly already whirling with the possibilities. “Nah, no, nope.” She said completely unconvincingly. Luckily Luke was too caught up in songwriting mode to catch her blatant lie. “Should we write some? It’s not really Sunset Curve’s style but it’s got a good vibe.” “No!” Julie protested, instantly regretting how forceful she had been. Luke’s eyebrows shot up to the top of his forehead before a smirk settled on his face. “So you do have words for it. Why can’t I hear them?

I know you haven’t agreed to sign on with us,” Luke barreled forward. “But the way we perform together? The way we write? It’s magic, Julie. We make each other better.” Julie smiled sadly. “That’s my line.

years, and our friendship went well beyond us being workplace acquaintances. Judging by the look on his face now, I knew I was in for a conversation that had nothing to do with work. Jagger made himself comfortable in the chair opposite of where I was seated and asked, “So, are you ever going to share?” “Share what?” I retorted, knowing precisely what he was referring to. Jagger had been walking out of Harper Security Ops with me the day Sawyer showed up. I hadn’t ever shared the full story with him—or anyone else, for that matter—about what happened between us. Quite frankly, I wasn’t quite sure what I would have said. Telling someone that a girl I’d crushed on had left town without telling me seemed silly. “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Jagger replied. “Who was the girl in the parking lot the other day?” “Her name is Sawyer,” I answered. “And is there a reason that both you and Sawyer seemed unable to tear your eyes away from one another?” he pressed. I recalled that moment in the parking lot. The instant my eyes were on her, I couldn’t look away. That might have been because I was terrified I was making her up in my head and that she’d disappear if I even blinked. “The last time we saw each other was twelve years ago,” I shared, hoping that would answer all his questions. His lips twitched before he declared, “So, she’s the girl.” “What girl?” “Don’t play that game with me, Jesse,” he ordered. “She’s the girl that’s had you all twisted up inside for years.” There was no use in denying it, so I nodded. The truth was, there was so much I’d found attractive about Sawyer. It wasn’t just that she was pretty and had an unbelievable body. I loved her courage. I liked the fact that she was willing to give just about anything a try. She didn’t live her life in fear, and she was the kind of girl who went after what she wanted. There was so much determination in her personality, and for me, a girl like Sawyer was a girl that I wanted to be around. And I had believed she had a level of attraction to me as well. I could see it sometimes when she looked at me, and I felt it in every word she wrote in her letters to me while I was a recruit. The words in those letters were some of the best memories I had of her. I hadn’t expected she would write as much as she did, considering we were only friends, and I remembered how good it felt to know that she cared enough to do it. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the chance to turn it into something more, and she was gone before I could make it happen. That was why Jagger knew I’d been twisted up inside for years about a girl, even if he didn’t know it had been her.

E-mail madness, or e-mailopathy, is the name I have for the psychological disorder where people are so overwhelmed by the waves of e-mail they receive that they protect their psyche by never reading any of it. Instead they skim e-mails quickly and write and send replies even quicker, like a paranoid, drunk blindfolded man pulling the trigger of a fully loaded AK-47. What they don't realize is if they send waves of bad e-mail out, they're guaranteed to get waves of bad e-mail back, especially if the person on the other end has the same disorder they do.

I'm having a hard time describing how to asphyxiate someone while singing Frank Sinatra's Fly Me To Moon. Now if I use the advice you kindly give me in a manner other than to write a story, well, and there ain't no sugarcoating it; you're an accessory.

I must write to Jane immediately,” added Elizabeth. “She is my dearest friend as well as my dearest sister, and I am so happy that she will marry the man she loves. Papa, you can carry my letter home to her.

A true writer recognizes the insanity in themselves.

Things happen for a reason. I believe that. For instance, I masturbated moments ago and now I’m searching for a reason…beyond the obvious.