I am haunted by humans.
I certainly wasn’t born with creative writing. Maybe there’s a certain amount of learning and then it’s up to the person. I think in the end it’s your favourite books that are the best teachers. That’s the way I’ve learned the most, by far.
Please, trust me, I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that’s only the A’s. Just don’t ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.
First the colours. Then the humans. That’s usually how I see things. Or at least, how I try.
I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.
When I was a teenager I decided I was going to be a writer and that nothing was going to stop me. It sounds almost villainous. But I knew that was what I wanted.
The point is, it didn’t really matter what the book was about. It was what it meant that was important.
I guess humans like to watch a little destruction. Sand castles, houses of cards, that’s where they begin. Their great skills is their capacity to escalate.
When I find research really rewarding is when one piece of information gives you an idea for a story. That’s when it’s great.
Even death has a heart.
As always, one of her books was next to her.
I’d rather chase the sun than wait for it.
Maybe one morning I’ll wake up and step outside of myself to look back at the old me lying dead among the sheets.
It was the beginning of the greatest Christmas ever. Little food. No presents. But there was a snowman in their basement.
Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.
A snowball in the face is surely the perfect beginning to a lasting friendship.
She took a step and didn’t want to take any more, but she did.
You’ll have days of complete lack of faith in your abilities. But you have to keep coming back. That’s when you know you’re a writer – when you take the failures and appear at the desk again, over and over again.
Just be patient, she told herself, and with the mounting pages, the strength of her writing fist grew.
It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on, coughing and searching, and finding.