Nature fits all her children with something to do, he who would write and can't write, can surely review.
Life is a sheet of paper white / Whereon each one of us may write / His word or two, and then comes night.
It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century.
Though old the thought and oft exprest, Tis his at last who says it best.
The secret of force in writing lies not so much in the pedigree of nouns and adjectives and verbs, as in having something that you believe in to say, and making the parts of speech vividly conscious of it.
If one waits for the right time to come before writing, the right time never comes.
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