The English inn stands permanently planted at the confluence of the roads of history, memory, and romance.
Writing is an antisocial act.
And so it continued all day, wynde after wynde, From a room beyond came the whistle of a teakettle. Now, you really must join me. I've some marvelous Darjeeling, and some delicious petit fours a friend of mine gave me for Christmas.
I cleared my throat - it isn't frogs you get in your throat; it's memories.
Talking's just a nervous habit.
You can't be blocked if you just keep on writing words. Any words. People who get 'blocked' make the mistake of thinking they have to write good words.