The biggest challenge for me has been in coping with my perfectionism. I have a stiflingly hard time moving forward in a project if it's not 'just right' all along the way. The trap I so easily fall into is rewriting and rewriting the same scenes over and over to make them perfect, instead of continuing on into the wild unknown of the story.
Peace is more than the absence of war. Peace is accord. Harmony.
There are boys you look at and want to touch with your mouth, and there are boys you look at and want to wear one of those surgical masks everyone in China had during bird flu. There are a lot more bird-flu boys at large.
Once upon a time, the sky knew the weight of angel armies on the move, and the wind blew infernal with the fire of their wings.
The main thing I've learned is that we all have to learn to work with - and appreciate - the brain we've been given, and not waste time wishing things were easier.
Which is what one always hopes will happen: for life to take over and be bigger and more marvelous than what we can dream up on our own. Life doesn't need magic to be magical. (But a little bit sure doesn't hurt.)
It's like all my life I've been this tower standing at the edge of the ocean for some obscure purpose, and only now, almost eighteen years in, has someone thought to flip the switch that reveals that I'm not a tower at all. I'm a lighthouse. It's like waking up. I am incandescent.
There is the past, and there is the future. The present is never more than the single second dividing one from the other. We live poised on that second as it's hurtling forward-toward what?
Music. Close your eyes and it's a rosebush blooming in time lapse so that it shoots and blossoms flow outward in a swift choreography of growth and collapse, twine and coil, release and fade. Close your eyes and music paints light vines and calligraphy on the darkness within you.
Your soul sings to mine. My soul is yours, and it always will be, in any world. No matter what happens. I need you to remember that I love you.
I know it's not easy for you, living this life, but try to remember, always try to remember, you're not the only one with troubles.
She tastes like nectar and salt. Nectar and salt and apples. Pollen and stars and hinges. She tastes like fairy tales. Swan maiden at midnight. Cream on the tip of a fox's tongue. She tastes like hope.
It's all a quilt of fairy tales with a patch here and there of truth.
Have you ever asked yourself, do monsters make war, or does war make monsters?
Like a magpie, I am a scavenger of shiny things: fairy tales, dead languages, weird folk beliefs, fascinating religions, and more.
Hope can be a powerful force. Maybe there's no actual magic in it, but when you know what you hope for most and hold it like a light within you, you can make things happen, almost like magic.
Happiness. It was the place where passion, with all its dazzle and drumbeat, met something softer: homecoming and safety and pure sunbeam comfort. It was all those things, intertwined with the heat and the thrill, and it was as bright within her as a swallowed star.
She knocked and waited, because when the door was opened from within, it had the potential to lead someplace quite different.
Bitter, bitter, this desolation of angels.
It's like losing gravity and falling into space " the moment of pitching headlong when the endlessness of space asserts itself and there is no more down, only an eternity of up, and you realize you can fall forever and never run out of stars.
I was going to say the beginning is the good part, when it's all sparks and sparkles, before they are inevitably unmasked as assholes.
And just so you know, the invaders are always the bad guys. Always.
The goblins want girls who dream so hard about being pretty their yearning leaves a palpable trail, a scent goblins can follow like sharks on a soft bloom of blood. The girls with hungry eyes who pray each night to wake up as someone else. Urgent, unkissed, wishful girls. Like Kizzy.
I'm going to be the scariest grandma in the world.
What are we fighting for? What are we killing for? What do you see when you look into the future?
Beauty,' Brimstone had scoffed once. "Humans are fools for it. As helpless as moths who hurl themselves at fire.
Mercy, she had discovered, made mad alchemy: a drop of it could dilute a lake of hate.
Jael returned the lazy smile. "You're not my type." "Well, you're not anybody's type," said Hazael. "No, wait. I take it back. My sword says she'd like to know you better.
Once upon a time, a girl lived in a sandcastle, making monsters to send through a hole in the sky.
It was funny, she thought, but her smile turned wistful because she had nobody to tell.
Long life is a burden, when it's spent in misery.
A thousand things might have stopped me from being here right now, but instead, a thousand things brought me here.
That faeries have forgotten the Tapestry; that is the greatest tragedy of all. It's the fabric of all creation and it's woven of dreams, the dreams of the Djinn. Dreams are real, Magpie. They're seed and water and sun. They're everything.
It is a condition of monsters that they do not perceive themselves as such. The dragon, you know, hunkered in the village devouring maidens, heard the townsfolk cry 'Monster!' and looked behind him.
Be an unstoppable force. Write with an imaginary machete strapped to your thigh. This is not wishy-washy, polite, drinking-tea-with-your-pinkie-sticking-out stuff. It's who you want to be, your most powerful self. Write your books. Finish them, then make them better. Find the way. No one will make this dream come true for you but you.
If only it were that easy to let go of hate. Just relax your face.
...something was starting to take shape, out of magic and will. Smoke and bone.
Hey! My body may be small, but my soul is large. It's why I wear platforms. So I can reach the top of my soul.
Your heart is not wrong. Your heart is your strength. You don't have to be ashamed.
Wishes are false. Hope is true. Hope makes its own magic.