Old things are better than new things, because they've got stories in them, Ethan.
There is a point. I don't know what it is, but everything I've had, and everything I've lost, and everything I felt—it meant something.
"Well? Is it true? Did she?" "Did she what?" "You know. Fall outta the crazy tree and hit every branch on the way down?"
Nothing was ever how you wanted it to be. Not anymore. Not for me.
It's crazy what you see if you aren't really looking.
High school sucked. It was a universal truth, and whoever said these were supposed to be the best years of your life was probably drunk or delusional.
What we had went so much deeper than a kiss. When we were together, she turned me completely inside out. It didn't matter if we were dead or alive. We could never be kept apart. There were some things more powerful than worlds or universes. She was my world, as much as I was hers. What we had, we knew. The poems are all wrong. It's a bang, a really big bang. Not a whimper. And sometimes gold can stay. Anybody who's ever been in love can tell you that.
Mortals. I envy you. You think you can change things. Stop the universe. Undo what was done long before you came along. You are such beautiful creatures.
I start with a beat sheet, which is more of an abbreviated outline. It hits all the major plot points. From there, I move to note cards. But the most important part of my process is my inspiration board.
It was all so clear now. Like everything had been lost in darkness, and then the sun came out. Some moments are like that.
The beginning of a book is always the hardest part for me. I'm a Chapter 3 kind of writer, which means I naturally start at Chapter 3.
I smiled at her, but she was already lost in thought, looking around the library as if it held all the answers to all our problems.
It wasn't about how she looked, which was pretty, even though she was always wearing the wrong clothes and those beat-up sneakers. It wasn't about what she said in class--usually something no one else would've thought of, and if they had, something they wouldn't have dared to say. It wasn't that she was different from all the other girls at Jackson. That was obvious. It was that she made me realize how much I was just like the rest of them, even if I wanted to pretend I wasn't.
falling not flying one lost muddy shoe like the lost worlds between me and you
You need help, and that's what books are for.
Maybe all crows were just creepy.
My mom was there, in some form, in some sense, in some universe. My mom was still my mom, even if she only lived in books and door locks and the smell of fried tomatoes and old paper. She lived.
Writing a book is hard. It turns out, writing a second book is twice as hard.
we love what we love and who we love who we love and why we love why we love and find a falling shoelace knotted and strung between the fingers of strangers
I may have been a Wayward, but my way was full of people who loved me. They were the only way I knew
They shouldn't call death passing on. They should call it leveling up. Because the game only got harder once I lost. And I was more than a little worried it had only just begun.
What did you do to Amma?" "I was late to school." He studied my face. I studied his. "Number 2?" I nodded. "Sharp?" "Started out sharp and then she sharpened it.
No, books. She would have maybe twenty going at a time, lying all over our house--on the kitchen table, by her bed, the bathroom, our car, her bags, a little stack at the edge of each stair. And she'd use anything she could find for a bookmark. My missing sock, an apple core, her reading glasses, another book, a fork.
We are given to the great, for great purpose, to great ends. We are given to the grave, for grave purposes, to grave ends.
the wheel of fate crushes us all
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