Write With Adora

the collected works of youth literati. read. write. publish.

Ray Bradbury Gives 12 Pieces of Writing Advice to Young Authors (2001)


Don’t start out writing novels. They take too long. Begin your writing life instead by cranking out “a hell of a lot of short stories,” as many as one per week. Take a year to do it; he claims that it simply isn’t possible to write 52 bad short stories in a row. He waited until the age of 30 to write his first novel, Fahrenheit 451. “Worth waiting for, huh?”

Some really great advice to students that want to write and love to write!

(Source: revolutionizeed)

Snow by Louis Macneice

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes–
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of your hands–
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses. 

Anonymous asked: How do you define success?

The dictionary defines it as “The accomplishment of an aim or purpose.” In a general sense I guess that’s true, but only if your aim or purpose is a good one…I guess I feel that “success” means having been able to help others in some way. I do it through teaching and writing, others may do it through customer service or humanitarian work or sweeping streets or politics. Horace Mann once said “Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for mankind”—that’s pretty close to my idea of success too.

Sharing Poetry: Arthur Rimbaud, "A Dream For Winter"


In the winter, we will leave in a small pink railway carriage
With blue cushions. We will be comfortable.
A nest of mad kisses lies In each soft corner.
You will close your eyes, in order not to see, through the glass,
The evening shadows making faces.
Those snarling monstrosities, a populace

Anonymous asked: How many poems have you written?

A few hundred…I’ve never really counted them all, though.

Anonymous asked: Can whatever you write be silly?

Of course it can! I once wrote a couplet that went “Pum-dee-dee-dum, goes the drum/Some sing along and hum.” I don’t think you can go any lower [ahem, sillier] than that :D

keyhole surgery

Submitted by Rui.

What are you going to do? I don’t know…I’ll stash it in the trunk first and then try to drive up to the Lake tonight. What if it wakes? It won’t. I made sure of it. The solution should render it dreamless and asleep for at least fifteen hours. Oh. Anyway, if it does, I’ll just have to end it finally. This will be my last goodwill. You needed to solve this a long time ago, why now? I don’t know, I can’t bear the smell anymore.

It shifts inconspicuously in the background. The bag appears to inflate. Water, is it…whatever it is, it devours the surface of the sack. And when it’s done, it’s as if nothing has changed.

Is it just me or did that bag turn a shade darker? Stop making me paranoid.

I take hold of it, and walk silently into the forest. Whatever happens, it needs to be done tonight. I had wrestled it, kicking and screaming. I had tried to fight it. I’m the master, the boatswain, the effortless purveyor of my fate. I questioned myself, where did it suddenly come from? What had happened? The rush, the blur, I can hardly distinguish the mess myself. Conflicting motives. By goodwill, I meant for myself. This is finished, the beast will be put down tonight. Along with it, the identity that it had irrevocably sealed itself with, mine.

I see my fate in front of me. Grasping the rope, I/it trekked without hesitation and barely present into the dark metallic sheen of the Lake. The caress of the ripples on my physical manifestation was a pleasure before…an indefinably questionable infinity.

Anonymous asked: What are your inspirations when devising a short story or poem?

It really depends—it could be a snatch of a poem I hear on the radio or a poster on the wall, an idea I get at 1 AM and then mull over for days…I think a lot of my inspirations come from the books I read and watching the news, but there’s really no one place.

Sharing Poetry: Billy Collins, "Not Touching"


The valentine of desire is pasted over my heart
and still we are not touching, like things

in a poorly done still life
where the knife appears to be floating over the plate
which is itself hovering above the table somehow,

the entire arrangement of apple, pear, and wineglass
having forgotten the…

Anonymous asked: How do you make a story you already published in here a short story or nonfiction?

I’m not quite sure what you mean by this question—if you’re interested in editing/uploading a new version of a story you’ve already posted here, you can definitely feel free to do so.