The rain increases and umbrellas sprout like mushrooms amongst the graves.
I binge write. I think it’s because I started seriously writing by participating in National Novel Writing Month, an online-based challenge to write 50,000 words in 30 days.
The Burgess sisters arrived together. Tara and Lainie do a little bit of everything. Sometimes dancers, sometimes actresses. Once they were librarians, but that is a subject they will only discuss if heavily intoxicated.
That’s the beauty of it. Have you seen the contraptions these magicians build to accomplish the most mundane feats? They are a bunch of fish covered in feathers trying to convince the public they can fly, I am simply a bird in their midst.
I am haunted by the ghost of my father, I think that should allow me to quote Hamlet as much as I please.
Natural talent is a questionable phenomenon. Inclination perhaps, but innate ability is extremely rare.
The past stays on you the way powdered sugar stays on your fingers. Some people can get rid of it but it’s still there, the events and things that pushed you to where you are now.
I am tired of trying to hold things together that cannot be held.
He remembers when he was very small his mother once said she wished happiness and adventure for him. If this does not count as adventure, he is not sure what does.
We are two different people, Ethan. Just because you could never decide which one of us you were in love with does not make us interchangeable.
Something about the circus stirs their souls, and they ache for it when it is absent.
We must put effort and energy into anything we wish to change.
He spends the majority of the evening in the company of Celia Bowen, whose elaborate gown changes color, shifting through a rainbow of hues to compliment whoever she is closest to.
Wine is bottled poetry, he thinks.
The circus arrives without warning. No announcements precede it. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not.
I’m an emotional sort of person in general and I have a vivid imagination, so I feel the whole spectrum of emotion strongly when I write.
Even the air feels different on Halloween, autumn-crisp and bright.
They say it’s darkest before the dawn, but it also tend to be quietest, and the quiet lets you hear yourself better.
The truest tales require time and familiarity to become what they are.
I like that ‘once upon a time’ quality, where the telling of a tale has an elevated sense of story. There’s a whimsical quality to it. Sometimes in fairy tales more things seem possible, even though often they’re real world based.
I mean only that I hope they find darkness or paradise without fear of it, if they can.