Rachel Heffington Quotes

Asking a writer why they like to write {in the theoretical sense of the question} is like asking a person why they breathe. For me, writing is a natural reflex to the beauty, the events, and the people I see around me. As Anais Nin put it, "We write to taste life twice." I live and then I write. The one transfers to the other, for me, in a gentle, necessary way. As prosaic as it sounds, I believe I process by writing. Part of the way I deal with stressful situations, catty people, or great joy or great trials in my own life is by conjuring it onto paper in some way; a journal entry, a blog post, my writing notebook, or my latest story. While I am a fair conversationalist, my real forte is expressing myself in words on paper. If I leave it all chasing round my head like rabbits in a warren, I'm apt to become a bug-bear to live with and my family would not thank me. Some people need counselors. Some people need long, drawn-out phone-calls with a trusted friend. Some people need to go out for a run. I need to get away to a quiet, lonesome corner--preferably on the front steps at gloaming with the North Star trembling against the darkening blue. I need to set my pen fiercely against the page {for at such moments I must be writing--not typing.} and I need to convert the stress or excitement or happiness into something to be shared with another person.
The beauty of the relationship between reading and writing is its give-and-take dynamic. For years I gathered and read every b

Our eyes met and the soul-light danced between. "Well.." he said, "how about coffee?

Why is it that women are the only ones who will write perfect men into fiction? It's strange. If a man portrayed his fictional men as archangels, the feminists would throw back their heads and howl, "UNFAIR!" but we women will create our own Mr. Darcy's and Mr. Knightley's and defy anyone who would point out their unrealistic points. The men aren't the ones crazy about Pride and Prejudice. Obviously they don't find perfect men realistic and honest enough to bother reading about. We don't write perfect women characters, do we? No. Our women all have bad tempers, or resentful hearts, or scabby pasts, or hidden fears--things that make them real. It's because we're easy on ourselves and aren't trying to boast perfection because we know we don't measure up. Then why do we hold men to a different standard?..... I'd caution all writers to make sure that your male "hero" in your story has his own flaws. You don't want a one-dimensional character. You don't want a perfect man that will drive away other men from reading the book.

Look to the men in your life. The men around you. Look to your brothers and fathers and pastors and neighbors. Your uncles and the guy down the street. Goodness--look to Taylor the Latte Boy if you must, but let's cast aside the Perfect-Man syndrome.

The best kind of praise is intelligent praise.

When the holly's in the red
And the pine is in the green,
When the mornings all are frosty,
In a brilliant silver sheen
Then I love to go a' walking
Rambling here and there, quite slow,
Plucking greenery and berries;
Wishing for a Christmas snow

I cozied an apple in my hand and tried the weight of it against my palm, contemplating whether or not beaning a judge with half-rotten fruit would qualify as contempt of the court. Quite probably.

We are not in a foul humor, Belkin. We are in a corrupt-tempered moon. There is a difference, you know.

There was more than one thing wrong with the whole story anyway. Had no one thought it remotely suspicious? Unhappy man marries beautiful woman. Beautiful woman shapes up rather nasty. Man unhappier than ever; woman unhappy as well. Three short weeks... Oops, he's dead! Oh, poor, dear child. Let's see what we can do with her. Free labor!

In order to be heard, an author must have readers...

The world was at my fingertips. But I was tired of being at its fingertips.

One must only have a plan and learn to ease dreams into the cracks of life and sooner or later you'll find that the dreams are so woven into reality that they've become reality... and they're all the stronger for it.

Stuffing one muffin in his mouth and a second in his pocket, Auguste slipped into a side passage and away. He'd just take a wander 'round the city and hope some assassin made a merciful move.

For heaven's sake, Wade, you sound as if it involved capes and daggers and poisons. Take out one of your dreams and dust it off and send it to Miss Harper to work on. Goodness knows you have enough of them lurking in that aweful brain of yours.

Callie, if you never think of the present then you can never do a thing about the future. The future's just made up on dozens of right-nows strung together.

O! Time is a faerie-maid, dark is her dairy laid:
Larders of mem'ry and amethyst lore.
But one kiss from her lips
On your lips as she slips
One cold hand in your pocket will finish the chore.

For her kiss it is sweet
It is death, it is meat
It is sharp as a bone-frost and light as a wheat
In her bed, poppy-reds
glimmer bright as she shreds
All your best years of life into raggedy threads.

O! She picks every purse with a laugh and a curse
but a beggar she stays till the end of no end.
For her girtle is trim
From the breast to the hem;
She must ever stay hungry to eat what you lend.

Never thanks, never smile,
Such small coinage is vile
In pay for the life-years snipped off of a man.
But a kiss for the road
- Age and Slumber your load -
And a red-lipped farewell where your trouble began.

O! Time is a faerie-maid, dark is her dairy laid:
Larders of mem'ry and amethyst lore
But one kiss from her lips
On your lips as she slips
One cold hand in your pocket will finish the chore.

Too often we sit back and speak platitudes of the nitty-gritty bits of writing; the editing, the story structure, the verbal sparring vs. banter, the character development, the world-building become more important to us than the tune rhythm of the tale. And when you lose the music of the story, all the footwork in the world is not going to make up for the loss of continuity and heart.
We need to take a step back in our souls and conjure the image of what this story is: the notes and beats and things woven into it's fullness. See, that's what is so easy to lose sight of as we write. We forget that, in a way, this story is a full story in itself. We tend to try to build the story piece by piece, line upon line, precept upon precept, but that--as any true writer knows--is not entirely practical. A story does have its own identity. To some extent, the story exists in your mind as a whole. Its own being. To chance sounding sappy: Your story is a full piece of music waiting for you to dance it into existence. Don't make the mistake of leaving out all the music.
It is tempting to want to have everything arranged to perfection so that little editing will be done. But if you are keeping in mind the way your story needs to run--feeling it and dwelling in the beauty of its passion and color and vibe--the footwork will take care of itself. Certainly it will require practice and your technicalities will need a little work--everyone's does. But you will have captured the essenc

Perhaps one of my favorite things about travelling is getting to mark and observe other readers.

Because prayer is the best way to set a wrong thing right again. Admitting I don't have the answers. Asking the One who does for a bit of clarity. Putting myself back in my proper place in the universe.

Sure, at heart I wanted to be a Dickens, but I hated being great on command.

People without fine voices would never sing.
Children would never draw pictures because they weren't real artists.
Learning an instrument would be illegal unless you were a protege and knew instinctively.
You could only ever learn the one language to which you were raised.
Poor gardeners would not be permitted to try growing seeds.
Only the true athletes would be allowed to jog or play sports.
Dancing could be done only by professionals.