She would find her answers in the words she wrote, in the stories she told, not by asking for permission.
Some mornings when I wake up, it takes a long time to remember who I am. Like, it takes a while for everything that’s happened in last month to download into my brain. It’s nice, not knowing. Even if it’s just for five minutes.
It’s not always about writing more words or drinking more coffee. Sometimes getting to the end of a novel simply takes remembering that the world is more complicated than we know, and then sticking some of those complications into the story.
Don’t worry,” he kept saying. “The overworld can’t hurt you if you stay calm.” I wasn’t calm at all. But my panic was like a poisonous snake at a zoo, staring at me from the other side of thick glass. Only Yamaraj’s touch on my arm kept the glass from shattering. His skin seemed to burn against mine.
Because that’s what people need after traumas, apparently – lots of long conversations about the effects of trauma.
It must be horrible to see an ugly face when your surrounded by such beautiful people all the time.
The thought of publishing – of the whole world reading Afterworlds – had always made Darcy feel naked and exposed, but loving had left her skinless.
When you get your author’s photo taken, be sure not to touch your face.” “Why would I do that?” “It’s a mystery, but quite common. You must have seen this one.” Oscar struck a brooding pose, his fist beneath his chin. “For the author whose brain is too heavy to stay up on its own.
The sight of Ethan – of Scam, since this was a mission – sent a trickle of annoyance down Crash’s spine. Not like all the little itches of tech, just the ever-present need to punch him in the face.
Darcy closed her eyes. Their lips met, and she breathed in the scent of the sun-heated tar beneath them and the salt of Imogen’s skin. She felt the rumble of the traffic below traveling up through the building and into her spine, her fingertips, her tongue.
Freedom’s easy to lose and hard to get back.
My whole life, I always thought that I was the only impostor. That everyone else was certain they were real in some way that I could never understand. But what if they’re all just faking too? Maybe none of us know who we really are.
But I feel more real when I’m around her. Like I’m not fading.
What a waste, using her talents this way. Like a brain surgeon clubbing seals for a living.
She imagines herself as the long-dead Descartes, staring into his fireplace and building a world in his own mind.
Your book is smart and beautiful. I want to have its sequels.
And I kind of love it that you want to know everything.
Didn’t any of these brainless wonders ever notice that TV shows were called programs? the same word that meant a bunch of numbers stuck into a computer to make it dance for its masters?
At fist he didn’t say anything more, and we had a little staring contest there in the darkness. but I liked staring at him, and I won.
As the serpentine expanse of glass drew open, the city seemed to wrap around them: rooftop gardens with stunted trees in pots, water towers like chunky flying saucers, the spires of distant skyscrapers.