Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief
All kill their inspiration
And sing about their grief
—U2, "The Fly"
Deep, so deep
The number-one I hope to reap
Depends upon the tears you weep
So cry, lover, cry
—The Beautiful South, "Song for Whoever"
I'm sorry, mama
I never meant to hurt you
I never meant to make you cry, but tonight
I'm cleaning out my closet
I never meant to hurt you
I never meant to make you cry, but tonight
I'm cleaning out my closet
—Eminem, "Cleaning Out My Closet"
Now if I ever feel jealous (What?)
I just turn it into lyrics and I fuckin' sell it
And now when I get depressed and make songs
I turn pain into rent and sing along
I just turn it into lyrics and I fuckin' sell it
And now when I get depressed and make songs
I turn pain into rent and sing along
—Waterparks, "A NIGHT OUT ON EARTH"
How dare Corinne write up Allegra's secret stories and send them off to magazines to be published?
How dare Corinne write them so poorly that no one wished to take them?
How dare Corinne write them so poorly that no one wished to take them?
—The Jane Austen Book Club, Karen Joy Fowler
"As for my take on Shakespeare, I'm basing a lot of it on what I personally find scary about being a storyteller. When something terrible is happening, 99 percent of you is feeling terrible, but 1 percent is standing off to the side — like a little cartoon devil on our shoulder — and saying, 'I can use this. Let's see, I'm so upset that I'm actually crying. Are my eyes just tearing, or are they stinging? Yes, they're stinging, and I can feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. How do they feel? Hot. Good, what else?' That's the kind of disconnectedness I wanted to explore."
"Who knows, maybe you can stare too hard at something. Drain out the virtue, suck out the living juice. You shoot the great places and the pretty people. All those girls and boys. Shoot them dead."
—Jack Hannaford, The Other Side of the Wind
Lisa: Isn't your book a little hard on Dad?
Marge: [nervous laughter] What do you mean? My book is set in whaling times?
Lisa: "Captain Mordecai stared at the shop window full of powdered blowholes. 'Mmmm... blowholes', he drooled." Sounds like Dad to me.
Marge: Well, I guess that part is loosely based on your father.
Marge: [nervous laughter] What do you mean? My book is set in whaling times?
Lisa: "Captain Mordecai stared at the shop window full of powdered blowholes. 'Mmmm... blowholes', he drooled." Sounds like Dad to me.
Marge: Well, I guess that part is loosely based on your father.
— The Simpsons, "Diatribe of a Mad Housewife"
Once upon a time there was an author.
This author had been writing for a long, long time, and though most of their stories they discarded, having lost interest in them, one story they managed to stick with for more chapters than they ever had written before. After some time, it became clear that this story would have a chance of being finished, and the writer worked even harder to achieve that goal.
This author tended to write their stories about other people's universes, as opposed to their own, borrowing other characters instead of creating them themself. Despite that, they put a lot of themself into their writing, and gave traits of their own to the characters they wrote about.
Unfortunately for the characters, there were some side effects of this.
The author was very, very sad, for reasons they couldn't understand. This came across in their writing, as there was tragedy and death, as the characters cried and despaired. This story was no different, and though it started out lighthearted enough, the author's mental state grew worse as the story went on, and the characters suffered for it. Still, the author continued to write, using their writing less to tell a story and more to work out their own issues with depression.
Everything that happened in the story was determined by the author. Every death, every tragedy — nothing could happen without the author writing it. Every event was deliberately chosen for the sake of the story, and through the characters, they act out their will.
This is your universe. This is your story. And I am the author themself.
This author had been writing for a long, long time, and though most of their stories they discarded, having lost interest in them, one story they managed to stick with for more chapters than they ever had written before. After some time, it became clear that this story would have a chance of being finished, and the writer worked even harder to achieve that goal.
This author tended to write their stories about other people's universes, as opposed to their own, borrowing other characters instead of creating them themself. Despite that, they put a lot of themself into their writing, and gave traits of their own to the characters they wrote about.
Unfortunately for the characters, there were some side effects of this.
The author was very, very sad, for reasons they couldn't understand. This came across in their writing, as there was tragedy and death, as the characters cried and despaired. This story was no different, and though it started out lighthearted enough, the author's mental state grew worse as the story went on, and the characters suffered for it. Still, the author continued to write, using their writing less to tell a story and more to work out their own issues with depression.
Everything that happened in the story was determined by the author. Every death, every tragedy — nothing could happen without the author writing it. Every event was deliberately chosen for the sake of the story, and through the characters, they act out their will.
This is your universe. This is your story. And I am the author themself.
—A Piece of Rebellion, Chapter 15
Oh, Jinks, Jinks - do help me - get me away from here - let me go somewhere safe... safe...'
She sprang up and walked rapidly up and down, turning and twisting her hands.
The director in Jason was full of admiration for those passionate, tortured movements. I must remember them, he thought. For Hedda Gabler, perhaps? Then, with a shock, he remembered that it was his wife he was watching.
She sprang up and walked rapidly up and down, turning and twisting her hands.
The director in Jason was full of admiration for those passionate, tortured movements. I must remember them, he thought. For Hedda Gabler, perhaps? Then, with a shock, he remembered that it was his wife he was watching.
"But everyone knows that I had a crush on my second-grade teacher, and that I loaded our groceries into the backseat of the wrong car at the store, and that I clogged the kitchen sink with Cream of Wheat."
Mom smiled. "Those aren't bad things. They're funny."
"They're private."
Mom smiled. "Those aren't bad things. They're funny."
"They're private."
—Dear Mrs. Ryan, You're Ruining My Life
"He submitted them to his animal sexuality, tamed them, bewitched them, ingested them, and crushed them onto his canvas."
—Marina Picasso about Pablo Picasso, Picasso My Grandfather
