A fiction writer is nothing more than the ambassador of an alternative world of their own design. Their success dwells in how many people their work entices to relocate
When writing fiction, you learn to only put things and characters in, that are going to progress your story. There is something to be learned about that approach in real life
I find it boring and a waste of time debating other people’s opinions, however challenging my own is always intriguing and there is where I inevitably discover growth.
Aside from a very select few, there are no overnight success stories. Most of the time that single step took a thousand miles to get to it.
The true magic of novels dwells within us individually. Each reader will interpret every single character, scene, and metaphor in a slightly different way
God loves us so much that he doesn’t let us live forever so we can stop making mistakes
I consider myself a synthetic thinker in a virtual domain therefore if I’m way off there is no solid foundation or reference for authentic stupidity.
We're all mad, the whole damned race. We're wrapped in illusions, delusions, confusions about the penetrability of partitions, we're all mad and in solitary confinement.
The stars are reflected from within the black water in the cistern. I find comfort in the omen I glean from this: light in the darkness, truth when it seems there is none.
In the presence of the storm, thunderbolts, hurricane, rain, darkness, and the lions, which might be concealed but a few paces away, he felt disarmed and helpless.
Get done with the damn sibling rivalry and let's get back with the task at hand here so we can figure out what we're going to do.
I cannot ever imagine a time or place in which I will not love you. I am willing to do whatever it takes.
Winter is the time for stories, staying fast by the glow of fire. And outside, in the darkness, the stars are brighter than you can possibly imagine.
The lights disappear, The elevator shudders, Stalls, Quits. All in the same nanosecond. All that exists is darkness so thick I can't think, And Travis so close I can't breathe.
Unbeknownst to most of its dormant and otherwise distracted inhabitants, one beautiful tiny blue sphere, spinning through the dark cloak of galactic space, was clearly under siege.
Crying is right at hand in the smothering dark, closed inside someone else, when you see how everything you can ever accomplish will end up as trash.
I don't know about you, but I find the idea of a school at night time - imagining the silent classrooms in total darkness and the playgrounds left lonesome and bare - creepily peculiar.
Heaven . . . is the same feeling. . . . No fear. No dark. When you know you are loved . . . that’s the light.
From the very second that two people sat together around a fire in the forest, there was another human out there who felt better in the dark.
Is that the end... of all the races and civilizations, and the dreams of the world, to be able to leave a few stones buried beneath the sands, to tell the Dark that we were here?
I'm sorry, Gemma. But we can't live in the light all of the time. You have to take whatever light you can hold into the dark with you.
