The simple truth of things is that bad dreams are far better than bad wakings.
The past is obdurate. It doesn’t want to change.
When the time is gone, you can never get it back.
When the reader hears strong echoes of his or her own life and beliefs, he or she is apt to become more invested in the story.
The more fiction you read and write, the more you’ll find your paragraphs forming on their own.
Every book you pick up has its own lesson or lessons, and quite often the bad books have more to teach than the good ones.
I am the literary equivalent of a Big Mac and fries.
But still, sometimes, in the heart of winter when the light outside seemed yellow- sleepy, like a cat curled up on a sofa...
The sun was a molten coin burning a circle in the low-hanging overcast, surrounded by a fairy-ring of moisture.
The sandwich he made was bologna and cheese, his favorite. All the sandwiches he made were his favorites; that was one of the advantages of being single.
Lightning flashed dully inside the clouds on the horizon making them look as if they had fireflies of their own, monster fireflies the size of dinosaurs.
He could feel the pores of his body open like a million mouths and slurp the water in like a sponge.
He smiles a lot. But I think there might be worms inside him making him smile.
The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.
I’m having a magenta day. Not just red, but magenta!
Nora Roberts is cool.
Here I am, ninety years old and ready for the cooling board, using a brand new Macintosh computer, and there you sit, twenty-two and gorgeous, fresh as a new peach, yet scrawling on a yellow legal pad like an old maid in a Victorian romance.
I always like to see enlightened parents like that; it gives me hope for the future.
In these silences something may rise.
Swear to me swear to me that if it isn’t dead you’ll all come back.