Buzz Lightyear: That Barbie has nice handwriting! Jessie: Uhh, Buzz? Barbie didn't write this.
I love telling stories, whether I'm the human instrument that helps tell that story, or I'm the man behind the curtain.
I tried to stick to my game plan, which was always being aware of what my A story was - the love story between a father and his son, and that son and his daughter.
One of the last courses I taught was on the Russian short story, which I love.
It's an indication of how cynical our society has become that any kind of love story with a sad theme is automatically ridiculed as sentimental junk.
Individual stories from the Bible had been made into movies, but no one had taken on the arc of the Bible story as one meta-narrative from Genesis to Revelation.
A lot of my stories are inspired by Japanese folklore or literature or movies: I've done stories based on Kabuki and Noh plays, and on Kurosawa's 'Yojimbo' movies.
The definition of a good story is one that remains with you long after you've turned that last page.
If you do weave one-liners into a story, you have to have an overall story as well, otherwise it doesn't really count as narrative.
The reader really has to step up to the plate and read a short story.
Once you know you are worthy and your story is worthy, you fight for other stories.
Never settle for half the story, and make-up and imagine the rest. Get the full Story!
I find it satisfying and intellectually stimulating to work with the intensity, brevity, balance and word play of the short story.
Ghosts will forever put in appearances, as they should. Our illusions have muscle and meaning. The past returns at midnight, in the heart of our dreams, and the rains and the willows forever remind us of the sacrifices we’ve offered and those we ha...
Well, someone told someone and someone told someone else, you know how it is, that if you filled jugs with water and placed them around the edges of your lawn that you’d be protected. Ghost and witches can’t cross over water, it turns out.
He saw in that instant a life he could not conceive of opening before him, a hopeless abyss. Either way he was doomed: He did what was wrong, and condemned himself, or he did what was right, and remained a ghost.
Ah, yes, choice. I chose to let my ghosts stay in past. Past is history you know. Living is now. I sat. I breathed. I let past go. I let future go. I am. That is all.
Sound the tocsin of national peril and hordes of well-meaning folk with nothing much to do always materialize from nowhere. They itch to meddle in great matters of which their comprehension is usually pretty dim, and have no objection to getting thei...
Gods, the love that saturated the room was so potent that Arabella couldn't breathe. This was what she wanted. Someone who wouldn't let go, someone who would love her so much he'd wait decades to be reunited with her.
There we go, that word again: faith. Pajo fuckin loves it. I fuckin hate it. I hate it cos there's no way o trickin yerself into it, no amount o thinkin about it can get yeh there - yeh have it or yeh don't. And I don't.
Oh, Claire," he said. "You think me a far better man than I am. That's kind, and flattering." "Are you saying that you -" "Doughnuts!" Myrnin interrupted her and darted away, to zip back in seconds with an open box.
