Reblog if you’re currently writing a novel, even if it’s only in your head or scribbled in the back of a notebook somewhere.
Think about how many books don’t exist yet.
I’m ALWAYS writing a novel.
I need to get back to my novel.
Imagine the library study of a person’s mind. Their thoughts just scattered about on scraps of paper. Books half-written are piled around their desk where numerous pens are constantly scratching out new thoughts and ideas.
“I am tired, not of arguing in favour of equality, diversity and tolerance, but of having to explain, over and over and over again, why such arguments are still necessary, only to have my evidence casually dismissed by someone too oblivious to realise that their dismissal of the problem is itself a textbook example of the fucking problem. I am tired of being mocked by hypocrites who think that a single lazy counterexample is sufficient to debunk the fifteen detailed examples they demanded I produce before they’d even accept my point as a hypothetical, let alone valid, argument. I am tired of assholes who think that playing Devil’s Advocate about an issue alien to their experience but of deep personal significance to their interlocutor makes them both intellectually superior and more rationally objective on the specious basis that being dispassionate is the same as being right (because if they can stay calm while savagely kicking your open wound, then clearly, you have no excuse for screaming).”—
Sometimes you need to remind yourself that you were the one who carried you through the heartache. You are the one who sits with the cold body on the shower floor, and picks it up. You are the one who feeds it, who clothes it, who tucks it into bed, and you should be proud of that. Having the strength to take care of yourself when everyone around you is trying to bleed you dry, that is the strongest thing in the universe.
Maybe you and your daughter both have thick thighs or wide ribcages. It’s easy to hate these non-size zero body parts. Don’t. Tell your daughter that with her legs she can run a marathon if she wants to, and her ribcage is nothing but a carrying case for strong lungs. She can scream and she can sing and she can lift up the world, if she wants.
Remind your daughter that the best thing she can do with her body is to use it to mobilize her beautiful soul.
This was recorded by the Portsmouth Sinfonia in an experiment where all the members of the orchestra would swap instruments with each other and attempt to play them to the best of their ability.
favorite things about this
literally all the brass starts to get the hang of it and then the crescendos happen and everyone is like FUCK FUCK FUCK??? FUCK. JUST. BLOW RLY HARD.
the strings are lazy but also the same. like u can tell a lot of the ppl w/ the stringed instruments may already basically know how to play stringed instruments. like there’s definitely a section at the beginning where you hear a good portion going “oh yeah this is like. a smaller/bigger version of what i do.”
all you hear of any woodwinds is just “pffffttt??? pFFFTTTT???? PFFFFFTTTT I SAID PFFFFTTTT!!!!!” bc woodwinds are fucking HARD and you hear after like the first crescendo half of them just give up. they give up. they’re done. fuck this it tastes weird and my lips hurt.
that trumpet. that person is fucking TRYING man they fucking GOT this. they may not have figured out notes but they figured out LOUD and they GOT this.