I love having written. Sometimes I love writing. I love to revise. Revising is my favorite part of writing.
She asks why I like her. Might as well ask Why I breathe. Maybe tomorrow I won’t Breathe or like her Anymore. Maybe tomorrow the tides Will stop. Maybe tomorrow will bring No more rainbows. Maybe tomorrow She will stop Asking useless questions.
He -it- was a specter! I stepped back, stunned.
You’re Only the fairest when your fairest to yourself.
The Writer’s Oath I promise solemnly: 1. to write as often and as much as I can, 2. to respect my writing self, and 3. to nurture the writing of others. I accept these responsibilities and shall honor them always.
I wonder how Admat can be everywhere. Is he in my sandal? Or is he my sandal itself? Why would a god bother to be a sandal? Does he wear shoes or sandals himself, invisible ones?
Father asks frequently in his letters whether I fancy any Ayorthaian young lady or any in our acquaintance at home. I say no I suppose I’m confessing another fault: pride. I don’t want him to know that I love if my affections are not returned.
Although we didn’t invite Lucinda, she arrived anyway-with a gift. “No need,” Char and I chimed together. “Remember when you were a squirrel,” Mandy said.
Kisses were better than potions.
Oak, granite, Lilies by the road, Remember me? I remember you. Clouds brushing Clover hills, Remember me? Sister, child, Grown tall, Remember me? I remember you.
I trust you to find the good in me, but the bad I must be sure you don’t overlook.
I don’t wait for inspiration. Writing is my job.
No sign of pleasure greeted the announcement. The mood in the hall was leaden. My mood was livelier. Fright is livelier than lead.
I rode all day. I cried all night. The moon didn’t glow. The sun didn’t rise. A comet blazed Between my eyes. West and South, Wind and rain. Every way is Just the same. Pray give me a box To hide inside. Pray give me a spade To dig my own grave.
Daughter, we didn’t need your note – or a prince’s visit – to tell us you’d done nothing wrong. We know the daughter we raised. We fear for your future, but never for your character. You take our love and our trust wherever you wander. Father.
Voices and faces aren’t manifestations of good or bad.
But my last conscious thought was an image of Prince Char when he’d caught the bridle of Sir Stephan’s horse. His face had been close to mine. Two curls had spilled onto his forehead. A few freckles dusted his nose, and his eyes said he was sorry for me to go.
Perhaps we can come here together someday. By the way, you’re a month older than the last time I saw you. Are you still too young to marry.
In books and in life, you need to read several pages before someone’s true character is revealed.
If beginnings terrify you, or if you just plain don’t like writing them, or if they bore you, skip ’em.
My favorite of my books is DAVE AT NIGHT, because it’s loosely based on my father’s childhood in an orphanage.