More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
I was born terrified. I’m not exaggerating; you can ask anyone in my family, and they’ll confirm that, yes, I was an exceptionally freaked-out child.
Just write anything and put it out there with reckless abandon.
Keep in mind that for most of history people just made things, and they didn’t make such a big freaking deal out of it. We make things because we like making things.
It’s okay if your work is fun for you, is what I’m saying. It’s also okay if your work is healing for you, or fascinating for you, or redemptive for you, or if it’s maybe just a hobby that keeps you from going crazy. It’s even okay if your work is totally frivolous. That’s allowed. It’s all allowed.
The image of the tragic artist who lays down his tools rather than fall short of his impeccable ideals holds no romance for me.
I have no great love or loyalty for my personal devils, because they have never served me well.
There’s a hole in our world from all the art those people did not make—there is a hole in us from the loss of their work—and I cannot imagine this was ever anyone’s divine plan.
As time ticked by and an impassioned idea still had not ignited me, I didn’t panic. Instead, I did what I have done so many times before: I turned my attention away from passion and toward curiosity. I asked myself, Is there anything you’re interested in right now, Liz? Anything? Even a tiny bit? No matter how mundane or small?
