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But the only rhyme he could summon for 'out' was 'sauerkraut,' which lacked poetic glory. He let it go. The right line would come in time. That was the thing about poetry. It crept up through the draws and coulees of the brain.

Annie Proulx

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Annie Proulx
Age: 89
Born: 1935
Born: August 22
Author
Journalist
Librettist
Non-Fiction Writer
Novelist
Screenwriter
Norwich
Connecticut
E. Annie Proulx
E.A. Proulx
Edna Annie Proulx
Edna Ann Proulx
Time
Poetry
Crept
Lines
Summon
Brain
Lacked
Come
Rhyme
Right
Poetic
Writing
Draws
Thing
Glory
Would
Line

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Walking on the land or digging in the fine soil I am intensely aware that time quivers slightly, changes occurring in imperceptible and minute ways, accumulating so subtly that they seem not to exist. Yet the tiny shifts in everything--cell replication, the rain of dust motes, lengthening hair, wind-pushed rocks--press inexorably on and on.
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I think it's important to leave spaces in a story for readers to fill in from their own experience.
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If you are looking for smart judging based on merit, skip the Academy Awards next year and pay attention to the Independent Spirit Awards.
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If life was an arc of light that began in darkness, ended in darkness, the first part of his life had happened in ordinary glare. Here it was as though he had found a polarized lens that deepened and intensified all seen through it.
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You know, one of the tragedies of real life is that there is no background music.
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If you get the landscape right, the characters will step out of it, and they'll be in the right place.
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If you can't fix it, you have to stand it.
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What we fear we often rage against.
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We're all strange inside. We learn how to disguise our differences as we grow up.
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In a rough way the short story writer is to the novelist as a cabinetmaker is to a house carpenter.
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I would rather be dead than not read
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Archie was an expert at dividing the affairs of life into men's business and women's business. An empty cupboard and a full plate were the man's business, a full cupboard and an empty plate the concern of the woman.
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And it may be that love sometimes occurs without pain or misery.
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It takes a year, nephew... a full turn of the calendar, to get over losing someone.
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Their silence comfortable. Something unfolding. But what? Not love, which wrenched and wounded. Not love, which came only once.
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