So Much Random, So Little Time

Writing is sacred to me. It is, at times perhaps, a rapture, but not an easy one. I sometimes will question a writer who says, “I love what I do,” because “love” is not exactly the word I would use. Writing is what I know how to do, but it’s also a necessity. To me, there is not much more than the thrill of a well-told story. That’s how I make sense of my world.

It was a day thirty years ago—during tenth-grade English—when my passion for stories became hitched to a more particular ambition. It was winter, through the windows we could see snow falling outside, and our teacher, Mr. Rossiter, was talking about a poem by T.S. Eliot. I don’t remember which poem it was. I don’t remember exactly what he said about it. But I will never forget the look on his face, how his eyes lit up as he spoke about that poem with such fire that I understood that reading that poem had changed him.

I remember thinking to myself: I want to write something that makes someone feel that.

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Dawn Tripp (via ladysaviours)

this quote is everything.

(via retrogrammartown)