We have lost phone conversations, because talking on cell phones is no fun at all, and it’s harder than texting or typing. I do think we’ve lost that, but we’ve gained a lot with the internet. I feel like the internet has turned us all into letter writers. I think of my mother when I was a kid, she never wrote down anything but a grocery list. People didn’t write, because you’d call. Why would you write anything? But now we’re all writers.
So when people complain about grammar and punctuation, I think it isn’t that our grammar and punctuation have gotten worse, but that it used to be that only writers wrote. Only people who were in education wrote, but now we all write: we all text, we all post. I feel like we’ve lost phones but we’ve gained this whole different type of correspondence that hasn’t existed since the age of letter writing.
-Rainbow Rowell interview on Den of Geek: Landline, fangirls, the internet (via bethanyactually)
the trouble with the girl
is that she’s beautiful
and that upsets you
because you’ve never had that word applied
to you, and you never will. weep louder.
the silence around you eats
at the hem of her dress.
you think that one day,
you may will become her, flip your hair
to one side and summon a miracle: here
the gods have kissed the nape of your neck.
now you glow. now
you are wonderful.
they are powerful dreams. you’re better
than when you’re waking; less of a nightmare,
there is a word they throw around
like trash to a garbage pile: dragon.
you want it like you have wanted little.
you pick it from the refuse like you’re picking your teeth,
carefully, with the edge of your nail
until you’re shining.
you lick like a flame, quick,
set him on fire. make that one burn. demand
that the princess love you, and set her on a pyre
anyway. you hear the word monster, once,
but the fire is louder, and it wakes you up, again and again.
you open your eyes, again and again. every time,
the nightmare turns to dream turns to you, awake
and alone, and cold, your toes going blue
and the princess still snoring, still snoring,
louder than royalty ought. the gold from her hair
is a shade less bright
than the gold on your wrist.
the problem you have is commitment: skin
does not grow back, and scales do not grow over skin
but under. you must leave one behind. the boy you love
is a werewolf, and he tells you about secrets underneath
his skin. you know you will be greater than him if you follow his advice. you know he’ll never love you. if you kiss him,
your fire will consume him. you do it anyway,
just to check.
the trouble with the boy is, he’s beautiful.
the trouble with you is,
you can’t tell if it’s him
or the fire you covered him in.
your skin goes next. your skin, and your lovely
silver hair. it was getting old, anyway.
your father doesn’t recognize you. the princess
screams, even though your claws are careful not to catch
on silk and lace. she does not glimmer
the way you glimmer. they look at her with love, at you
with fear, but both widen eyes. both lead
to weeping. you tell them, ‘weep louder.’ the fire outside you eats
at the hem of her dress.
-the trouble with you is you never heard beast (and silver has always been number two), g.i.n. (via spontaneousfangasm)