You are my butterfly and refuse to set you free.
I keep thinking about a tale my nurse used to read to me about a bird whose wings are pinned to the ground. In the end, when he finally frees himself, he flies so high he becomes a star. My nurse said the story was about how we all have something that keeps us down.
What she had long believed was not true, and now the world was wide open to discover what was. It is like all my life I thought the sky was green.
I do like the world quite a lot.
Yes, we'll yell, 'Help, help us, goose girl, and bring the terrifying legion of warrior geese'.
Razo hopped back up and adopted a posture that said he was completely unruffled, never had been, and in fact was ready to do something manly like lift boulders or swallow live worms.
He smiled in a way that made me want to kiss him right on the spot. Or the lips. Whichever was closer.
There's nothing more aggravating in the world than the midnight sniffling of the person you've decided to hate.
Mama used to say, you have to know someone a thousand days before you can glimpse her soul.
Look no farther than your hand, Make a choice and take a stand.
I'm a terrible prince. I should put my kingdom first and everything else second, but your first. I want you by my side every second, but I know I would crumble if I lost you.
... fantasy is not practice for what is real—fantasy is the opiate of women.
I wonder if everyone who faces death hurts like this. It's as though for the first time I realize how much just being alive makes my body ache. But I don't want that ache to stop.
There you go...let it all slide out. Unhappiness can't stick in a person's soul when it's slick with tears.
Sometimes my fancy gets to floating inside me, threatening to carry me away like a leaf on a wind. Better to be a stone.
Being a writer is a good, good thing.
The rewrites are a struggle right now. Sometimes I wish writing a book could just be easy for me at last. But when I think about it practically, I am glad it's a struggle. I am (as usual) attempting to write a book that's too hard for me. I'm telling a story I'm not smart enough to tell. The risk of failure is huge. But I prefer it this way. I'm forced to learn, forced to smarten myself up, forced to wrestle. And if it works, then I'll have written something that is better than I am.
I'm writing a first draft and reminding myself that I'm simply shoveling sand into a box so that later I can build castles.
Personally, I believe “Young Adult
She closed the book and put her cheek against it. There was still an odor of a library on it, of dust, leather, binding glue, and old paper, one book carrying the smell of hundreds.