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The true writer, the born writer, will scribble words on scraps of litter, the back of a bus tickets, on the wall of a cell.
David Nicholls
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David Nicholls
Age: 57
Born: 1966
Born: November 30
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Eastleigh Town
Words
Scraps
Born
Scrap
True
Bus
Back
Tickets
Writing
Cell
Cells
Scribble
Wall
Scribbles
Writer
Litter
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Call me sentimental, but there's no-one in the world that I'd like to see get dysentery more than you
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Be good. Do something good.
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Letters, like compilation tapes, were really vehicles for unexpressed emotions and she was clearly putting far too much time and energy into them.
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When you're reading a book, you're always looking for the natural place to stop. With a movie, you can't really have that sense of it coming momentarily to a halt there's pressure to keep the momentum up.
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I am not up to this. I am not capable. I thought I would be, but I'm not. Some part of me is missing, and I cannot do this.
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This is where it all begins. Everything starts here, today.
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…surprised all over again at how very comforting very bad food can be.
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What must that be like? To be admired before you’ve even said a word, to be desired two or three hundred times a day by people who have absolutely no idea what you’re like?
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If there's anything I'm keen to get better at in my writing, then it's the writing of prose as opposed to the writing of dialogue.
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And it was at moments like this that she had to remind herself that she was in love with him, or had once been in love with him, a long time ago.
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An adaptation leads the cinema-goer to the original to find out what they're missing and if they already know the book, it can still illuminate a theme, a character, an idea.
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You can't throw away years of your life because it makes a funny anecdote.
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Do you miss her?' 'Who? Emma? Of course. Every day. She was my best friend.
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All young people worry about things, it's a natural and inevitable part of growing up, and at the age of sixteen my greatest anxiety in life was that I'd never again achieve anything as good, or pure, or noble, or true, as my O-level results.
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At university, I used to write silly little sketches and monologues, but never fiction.
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The attraction of a life devoted to sensation, pleasure and self would probably wear thin one day, but there was still plenty of time for that yet.
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Mortified at the speed with which intimacy evaporates.
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She had never been a proficient flirt. Her spasms of kittenish behaviour were graceless and inept, like normal conversation on roller skates. but the combination of the retsina and sun made Emma feel sentimental and light-headed. She reached for her roller skates.
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Why can’t you just love me? Why can’t you just be in love with me?
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I had always been led to believe that ageing was a slow and gradual process, the creep of a glacier. Now I realise that it happens in a rush, like snow falling off a roof.
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