misadventurous

Christine. Tumbling in circles for 4 years & counting.

Obsessed with books, coffee, cats, but especially words.

currently reading: The Hours
2014 book challenge: 14/50
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I sent out my first query letters today!

Rejection Count: 2

owlmylove:

shslequius:

"Maybe if you go to bed you’ll feel better in the morning" is literally just the human version of "Have you tried turning it off and back on again?"

what have you done

also it doesn’t work

(via demonhauntedworld)

Many people, myself among them, feel better at the mere sight of a book.
 Jane Smiley, Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Novel (via observando)

(via xgingerbookworm)

What an absurd and universally accepted bit of nonsense it is that your best friends must necessarily be the ones who best understand you. As if there weren’t far too much understanding in the world already; above all, that understanding between lovers, celebrated in song and story, which is actually such torture that no two of them can bear it without frequent separations or fights.
Christopher Isherwood, A Single Man
This is one of the most singular experiences, waking on what feels like a good day, preparing to work but not yet actually embarked. At this moment there are infinite possibilities, whole hours ahead. Her mind hums. This morning she may penetrate the obfuscation, the clogged pipes, to reach the gold. She can feel it inside her, an all but indescribable second self, or rather a parallel, purer self. If she were religious, she would call it the soul. It is more than the sum of her intellect and her emotions, more than the sum of her experiences, though it runs like veins of brilliant metal through all three. It is an inner faculty that recognizes the animating mysteries of the world because it is made of the same substance, and when she is very fortunate she is able to write directly through that faculty. Writing in that state is the most profound satisfaction she knows, but her access to it comes and goes without warning. She may pick up her pen and follow it with her hand as it moves across the paper; she may pick up her pen and find that she’s merely herself, a woman in a housecoat holding a pen, afraid and uncertain, only mildly competent, with no idea about where to begin or what to write.
Michael Cunningham, The Hours

boykrishna:

thefrogman:

[video]

IM DYING !!!!

(via saderbrioli)

malindalo:

sharpegirl:

Far From You by Tess Sharpe Giveaway!

Hey y’all, I’m giving away two signed copies of FAR FROM YOU (with a few extras thrown in!). One copy will have my notes and thoughts about the book scribbled in the margins, and the second copy will contain a handwritten short story about what happens to the characters after FAR FROM YOU ends.

To enter, all you have to do is reblog this post, or tweet a link to the giveaway with the hashtag #farfromyou. This is an international Giveaway and it ends on Monday, April 21st and the winners will be announced on the 22nd! 

I’m not entering this giveaway because I already have a copy, but I’m reblogging to signal boost it. This book was awesome, folks! A mystery  with a bisexual MC set in Northern California — go get it.

whaaaaat this sounds awesome!!!

(via queerbookclub)

A minority is only thought of as a minority when it constitutes some kind of a threat to the majority, real or imaginary. And no threat is ever quite imaginary.

George Falconer

Christopher Isherwood, A Single Man

The only thing we can do as human beings is tell our story. In the end, that is the only power we ever had.
Stacy Pershall, Loud in the House of Myself
You have no responsibility to live up to what other people think you ought to accomplish. I have no responsibility to be like they expect me to be. It’s their mistake, not my failing.
I’m addicted to silence and privacy; I wallow in it.
Valorie Wesley (via vvni)

(via englishmajorinrepair)

My depression obscured the truth. This is why I feel frustrated now when I hear people referring to suicide as a self-centered act: of course it is. Nobody would commit suicide if the pain of being inside herself, the agony of the sleepless, tortured hours spent watching the world get smaller and uglier, were bearable or could be relieved by other people telling her how they wanted her to feel. A depressed person is selfish because her self, the very core of who she is, will not leave her alone, and she can no more stop thinking about this self and how to escape it than a prisoner held captive by a sadistic serial killer can forget about the person who comes in to torture her every day. Her body is brutalized by her mind. It hurts to breathe, sleep, eat, walk, think. The gross maneuverings of her limbs are so overwhelming, so wearying, that the fine muscle movements or quickness of wit necessary to write, to actually say something, are completely out of the question.
Stacy Pershall, Loud in the House of Myself