Forgotten Supernova by Tathya S is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at forgottensupernova.tumblr.com.
Forgotten Supernova by Tathya S is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at forgottensupernova.tumblr.com.
For a working writer, this is a silly sort of love. You should write novels. Short stories sell for the price of a good dinner, if you’re lucky (and the magazines and anthologies that used to buy them are themselves fading away or gone completely). When they get reprinted they won’t cover the taxi fare to get to the dinner. I’m lucky, and have collected my short stories into books that sell well for short-story collections, but still only a fraction of the number that my novels sell.
But short stories are the best place for young writers to learn their craft: to try out different voices and techniques, to experiment, to learn. And they’re a wonderful place for old writers, when you have an idea that wouldn’t make it to novel length, one simple, elegant thing that needs to be said. People like reading short stories. And they like listening to short stories.
Neil Gaiman, source: Guardian
God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of the players, (ie everybody), to being involved in an obscure and complex version of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won’t tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.
Neil Gaiman
Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life…You give them a piece of you. They didn’t ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like ‘maybe we should be just friends’ turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It’s a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.
Neil Gaiman
