heteroglossia:

“I have sometimes thought that a woman’s nature is like a great house full of rooms: there is a hall, through which everyone passes, going in and out; the drawing room, where one receives formal visits; the sitting room, where members of the family come and go as they list; but beyond that, far beyond, are other rooms, the hands of whose doors are perhaps never touched; no one knows the way to them, no one knows whither they lead; and in the innermost room, the soul sits alone and waits.”

— Edith Wharton, The Ghost Stories

novangla:

man tumblr loves to joke about how english lit analysis of symbolism is meaningless but like, when i took film class (from a filmmaker), my teacher told us,

there is no neutral or innocent choice in art

that is to say, as a writer or artist or filmmaker, you should be considering the meaning of everything you choose to include or exclude.  is there a water glass in the foreground of your shot? why?  you are creating a story from scratch, which means you are defining it by every choice you make, not just the major plot points.

especially in fiction writing or poetry, the author chose to write every single word.  nothing is there “on accident”.  if an author uses a color, they had to choose the color – and they had to chose to tell you the color at all, because they weren’t required to!  when i describe a color of something in my writing, i always think about the choice.  it’s never “just red”.

can analysis sometimes yield things the author didn’t intend? sure.  but (a) the point isn’t about trying to read the author’s mind, so who cares what they intended? and (b) sometimes the author actually does subconsciously weave symbolism into things.

i mean hell i had a fanfic commenter point out something that i hadn’t actually done intentionally and i was like, “wow, yes.  500% valid.”  if a reader can find resonance or symbolism in something, it’s not wrong or stupid or bad.

I get it, sweets, I do. I just don’t know what to say or do anymore. 😔😔

hepburny:

What kind of people would sit like that without a word to say to each other? 

Two for the Road (1967) dir. Stanley Donen

missclairebelle:

I have been beaten down by my job these last few weeks. When I started to project career anxiety onto writing, wanted to give up on this, delete my blog, and move on, there was a small group who refused to let me.  To them, I need to say thank you: @balfeheughlywed, @holdhertightandsayhername, @notevenjokingfic, @sassenachwaffles, and @thefraserwitch. You helped me not walk away. I owe you, particularly for the times that you refused to let me get away with some writing that didn’t feel/sound like me. I owe you, and love you all. xx.

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loss: act i and ficlets

Loss: Act II: part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six| part seven| part eight| part nine | part ten | part eleven | part twelve | part thirteen | part fourteen |  part fifteen | part sixteen | part seventeen | part eighteen |  part nineteen | part twenty | part twenty-one | part  twenty-two | part twenty-three | part twenty-four

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Loss (Act II)
Part Twenty-Five

It became easy to pretend that our pre-California argument over Tom Christie never happened.  (Tom’s forwardness. Jamie’s reaction. My non-reaction.  The fight that separated us into separate beds, panting  like boxers separated into opposite corners of a ring with protective mouthpieces askance. The iciness of our goodbye.)  When Jamie had left for California, he held back on the things he needed to say.  (His anger ticking like a bomb, his fingertips fluttering against his thigh. The way that I had wanted him to leave; the way I told him as much.)

But then he’d been hurt, and thus started a new kind of worry.

How I spoke to him.  Looked at him.  Turned away from him.  Fled.

Panic consumed me then.  The prospect that our argument would serve as the last page of an unbelievable love story was the pinpoint end of my tunnel vision.  That our stubbornness would be the ending that I wrote for us would haunt me always.  

Later, with Jamie on the mend, we had carefully avoided the subject of Tom Christie.  

With the duskiness of bruises still settling into my husband’s skin and the looming twin threats of surgery and infection, Tom’s vague history with Jamie became a mystery that I did not care enough about to uncover.

The man’s entire existence in my day-to-day work life had thus remained unspoken between my husband and me.

We stayed closed mouth about it as we made it through a full week of work.  

And then a second.

And finally a third.

Keep reading

wybieloon:
Miyazaki-San?