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from Streetlife series
Robert Evans, artist

From his gallery site:

Robert Evans has exhibited traditional oil painting in galleries on the east and west coasts. His studio is located in Mill Valley, California where he has held one man shows. He also exhibits at the Sausalito Art Festival.



– excerpt from Passages from the American Note-books of Nathaniel Hawthorne
entry dated May 1st, 1841

[h/t to Biblioklept for the lead in…]

TinTin by Georges Rémi

[Paragraph excerpt from Stoner by John Williams with a h/t to Biblioklept…image of TinTin via Awesome People Reading…]



From the post, Fail Safe: Debbie Millman’s Advice on Courage and the Creative Life:

Excerpted from designer Debbie Millman’s book, Look Both Ways: Illustrated Essays on the Intersection of Life & Design


Writing is work. It’s also gambling. You don’t get a pension plan. Other people can help you a bit, but ­essentially you’re on your own. ­Nobody is making you do this: you chose it, so don’t whine.

– Margaret Atwood, from Ten Rules for Writing Fiction

Last weekend, a fascinating act in the history of humanity played out on Reddit.

For April Fool’s Day, Reddit launched a little experiment. It gave its users, who are all anonymous, a blank canvas called Place.

The rules were simple. Each user could choose one pixel from 16 colors to place anywhere on the canvas. They could place as many pixels of as many colors as they wanted, but they had to wait a few minutes between placing each one.

Over the following 72 hours, what emerged was nothing short of miraculous. A collaborative artwork that shocked even its inventors.

– excerpted from When Pixels Collide

Go see – Orwell was onto something…

When we say, “all of my ideas have already been had,” what we’re expressing isn’t jealousy, it’s doubt in our own creativity, in our worthiness to write about anything at all. Never mind that originality in the broadest sense is hardly possible, and never mind that the beauty of most good essayistic writing lies in the writer’s ability to both make the specific feel universal and, paradoxically, turn the commonplace into something momentarily extraordinary. When we say “I should have written that,” what we mean is “How unjust, unfair, unkind that you were faster, smarter, and more fortunate than I. How terrible that I have nothing more to offer.” We’re not amateur novelists at all, just whiners.

– excerpted from Books I Wish I Wrote: On Writerly Jealousy, by Kaulie Lewis

st-jerome_caravaggioSt. Jerome and the Angel
Simon Vouet, oil on canvas, ca. 1622/1625

Do the work. The words will out.


From the sidewalk across from 40 Verandah Place, they could look past the bars on his window, which had no shades or curtains, and see him scribbling on loose typing paper or in a massive bookkeeping ledger—not sitting at a table but standing up, using the top of an old Frigidaire as a desk.  If this posture made any sense, it was only because the man was enormous, about six feet six, “or maybe a little more” in his estimation, and no dieter either. While he concentrated on his work, his big, sulky lower lip puffed out and his eyes widened. If one of his stubby pencils wore down, he chucked it to the side and picked another one out of a coffee can. When he finished with a page—sometimes only twenty sprawling words would fit—he would push it to the floor with a meaty hand and go on. In the afternoons a young typist would come and pick the sheets off the floor, then try to put them in order and make some sense of the handwriting, which generally consisted of a first and last letter for each word, with a wavy line between the two (why waste time with the other letters?). All the while the writing continued, so that the typist would have to keep shuttling between the typewriter and the first floor around the writer’s feet.

The apartment cost sixty-five dollars a month including utilities and it contained barely more than a few busted-up pieces of furniture and haphazard piles of papers and books, with coffee cups and ashtrays dotting the landscape. It was a federally declared intellectual disaster area.

Looking at this giant who worked deep into the night, who paid no attention to personal comfort or social decorum, who drank sludgy coffee and lit cigarettes off the burning butt of the one before, those people on the sidewalk must have thought they were beholding the very image of the writer, the artist.

If they did, they were right. Thomas Wolfe fit all the stereotypes just about to a tee.

– excerpted from the chapter, A Long Way From New York: Thomas Wolfe, in Literary Brooklyn

thomas-wolfeThomas Wolfe
1900 – 1938


monday_for-better-or-worseFor Better or For Worse
by Lynn Johnston

faulkner_nobel-speech– from William Faulkner’s speech upon acceptance
of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1950

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faulkner_posterAn early PR photo of Faulkner, ca. 1939



© Bill Israel

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