“ I’ve adjusted my life to make room for my hypervisibility. I realized when I was getting into body acceptance and fat politics how my body’s visibility was being used against me and how I would feel comfortable and more importantly empowered fighting back. I fight back by making myself SUPER FUCKING VISIBLE on MY terms and presenting myself in a way that forces you to see my fat body but see ME in it. Nicole Archer said “Femininity in this culture means people think they’re allowed to look at you. I present in a way that lets them know I’m looking back.”…The thing is, I WANT to to be threatening. I want you to think about shit when you see me bouncing down the street.
“ I will not be “famous,” “great.” I will go on adventuring, changing, opening my mind and my eyes, refusing to be stamped and stereotyped. The thing is to free one’s self: to let it find its dimensions, not be impeded.
— ― Virginia Woolf, A Writer’s Diary
“ Write. Start writing today. Start writing right now. Don’t write it right, just write it - and then make it right later. Give yourself the mental freedom to enjoy the process, because the process of writing is a long one. Be wary of “writing rules” and advice. Do it your way.
“ Once you have read a book you care about, some part of it is always with you.
— Louis L’Amour (Matagorda/The First Fast Draw)
“ You have a heart of gold
and I am kneeling in your bloodstream
panning for the only thing that has ever felt like home.
— Andrea Gibson, from “Staircase”
“ I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood.
“ Our fears are like dragons, guarding our deepest treasures…
— Phoebe Wonder (via Rachael Shannon)
“ Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive.
“ The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
— Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar.
