Musings of an Overactive Imagination

L'enfer est plein de bonnes volontés et désirs

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Tolstoy stumbles up to the counter, clutching a ragged, grey blanket around his shoulders. “Is it cold in here?” he stammers. “I feel like it’s cold in here.” The barista, too, is shivering. He offers Tolstoy a small cup of hot coffee. Snow drifts into the shop from the street. The barista…

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Writers don’t make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It is terrible. But then again we don’t work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make coffee, fry some eggs, read the paper, read part of a book, smell the book, wonder if perhaps we ourselves should work on our book, smell the book again, throw the book across the room because we are quite jealous that any other person wrote a book, feel terribly guilty about throwing the schmuck’s book across the room because we secretly wonder if God in heaven noticed our evil jealousy, or worse, our laziness. We then lie across the couch facedown and mumble to God to forgive us because we are secretly afraid He is going to dry up all our words because we envied another man’s stupid words. And for this, as I said, we are paid a dollar. We are worth so much more.
Donald Miller (via writingquotes)

(via ralfmaximus)

1,345 notes

Agatha Christie


Agatha Christie goes up to the counter and orders a cafe mocha. She stirs it dramatically, turns to the other occupants of the Starbucks, and announces that she knows who has committed the murder. The barista attempts to escape without notice, but the policeman in disguise subdues her quickly. Christie looks down, but her coffee is missing. It reappears a week later, but no one has ever determined where it went for those seven days.

(via themildlycompetentgatsby)