A story is like something you wind out of yourself. Like a spider, it is a web you weave, and you love your story like a child.
Katherine Anne PorterRead
Now and again thousands of memories _x000D_ converge, harmonize, _x000D_ arrange themselves around a central idea _x000D_ in a coherent form, _x000D_ and I write a story.
Interpretation
The quote reflects on the process of storytelling as a gathering of memories around a central theme.
Katherine Anne Porter describes the artistic process of writing as one where numerous memories come together to form a complete narrative. This convergence highlights the creative act of arranging these memories into a coherent story, suggesting that storytelling is an exploration of personal history and emotion that transforms fragmented experiences into a meaningful whole.
In practice
In a writing workshop to inspire participants to embrace their experiences.
A story is like something you wind out of yourself. Like a spider, it is a web you weave, and you love your story like a child.
Writing, in any sense that matters, cannot be taught. It can only be learned by each separate one of us in his own way, by the use of his own powers of imagination and perception, the ability to learn the lessons he has set for himself.
You do not create a style. You work, and develop yourself; your style is an emanation from your own being.
They had both noticed that a life of dissipation sometimes gave to a face the look of gaunt suffering spirituality that a life of asceticism was supposed to give and quite often did not.
Miracles are instantaneous, they cannot be summoned, but come of themselves, usually at unlikely moments and to those who least expect them.
Childhood is the fiery furnace in which we are melted down to essentials and that essential shaped for good.
I have an idea, and I have a perpetrator, and I write the book along those lines, and when I get to the last chapter, I change the perpetrator so that if I can deceive myself, I can deceive the reader.
The job of the writer is to look at where he is now and make some sort of emotional sense of it, not only for that moment but for years to come.
In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold
If you make your living writing, and you can't write anything, it's over. It's very frightening.
All these tales of people sitting down and composing symphonies just as though they were writing a letter are very much exaggerated; at least, it isn't that way in my work.
Looking up in the sky, I saw the stars were brighter now. They made a pattern I had never noticed before- a gleaming constellation that looked a lot like a girls figure- a girl with a bow, running across the sky. "Let the world honor you, my Huntress. Live forever in the stars.
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