Time is the water, Charlie. Life is just the bridge it flows under.
There is pain in every almost.
He thinks writing is also a kind of war, one you fight with yourself. The story is what you carry and every time you add to it, it gets heavier.
I think all worlds are magic. We just get used to it.
You get used to the amazing, that’s all. Mermaids and IMAX, giants and cell phones. If it’s in your world, you go with it. It’s wonderful, right? Only look at it another way, and it’s sort of awful. Think Gogmagog is scary? Our world is sitting on a potentially world-ending supply of nuclear weapons, and if that’s not black magic, I don’t know what is.
When there is love, scars are as pretty as dimples.
All alcohol smells the same to me, of sadness and loss.
Here is something I learned in Empis: good people shine brighter in dark times.
My old resentments were mostly gone, but not entirely. Fright and loss leave a residue.
I don’t want to be a Disney prince. To hell with that. If I have to be a prince, I want to be a dark one.
I think there’s always a reason for love, but sometimes hate just is. A kind of free-floating evil.
By then I was a teenager, and teenagers say anything to hurt when they are hurting.
We don’t own things. Things own us.
Did you know that could happen? Did you know you could sit in front of the screen or a pad of paper and change the world? It doesn’t last, the world always comes back, but before it does, it’s awesome. It’s everything, because you can have things the way you want. And I want you to still be alive. In the story you are, and always will be.
And way across, on the other side, this is crazy, but I thought I saw that hotel you talked about. Then I blinked my eyes – the wind was so strong they were tearing up – and when I looked again, it was gone.” Bucky doesn’t smile. “You’re not the only person who’s seen that. I’m not a superstitious man, but I wouldn’t go anywhere near where the Overlook Hotel used to stand. Bad stuff happened there.
Do you know what magic does, Charlie?’ I thought it did all sorts of things–allowing hapless pilgrims such as myself to visit other worlds, for instance–but I shook my head. ‘It gives people hope, and hope is dangerous.
Writing is good. He’s always wanted to do it, and now he is. That’s good. Only who knew it hurt so much?
I guess most jokes have some truth in them and that’s what makes them funny.
When I was writing, I forgot to be sad. I forgot to worry about the future. I forgot where I was. I didn’t know that could happen. I.
There’s always a later, I know that now. At least until we die. Then I guess it’s all before that.