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Fading light buttered the ridges until shadows licked them clean and they were lost to nightfall.

Daniel Woodrell

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Daniel Woodrell
Age: 71
Born: 1953
Born: March 4
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Springfield
Missouri
Lost
Buttered
Light
Licked
Nightfall
Ridges
Fading
Shadows
Shadow
Clean

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Gail had a baby named Ned who was four months old, and a new look of baffled hurt, a left-behind sadness, like she saw that the great world kept spinning onward and away while she'd overnight become glued to her spot.
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A person has to show some spirit -- fate just about never shines on chickenshits.
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He unscrewed the lid, set it on the dash, snorted from the bottle twice, banged the steering wheel, and said, 'You got to be ready to die every day - then you got a chance.'
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Pine trees with low limbs spread over fresh snow made a stronger vault for the spirit than pews and pulpits ever could.
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There's an overlap between social-realist fiction and crime fiction - a sweet spot there.
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I have a book in the pipeline of short stories. You want to hear an agent scream, say 'I'm thinking about doing a collection of short stories set in the Ozarks.
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Long, dark, and lovely she had been, in those days before her mind broke and the parts scattered and she let them go.
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I didn't really expect to be coming to the Oscars.
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The opening novel of the 'Bayou Trilogy' was the first one I finished.
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I was not much used to women except for mothers. Everything I did, they did different.
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I always loved the verve and vivacity of pulp and I kind of merged it with my own interest in family stories.
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The heart makes dreams seem like ideas.
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I had been born shoved to the margins of the world, sure, but I had volunteered for the pits.
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This is how sudden things happened that haunted forever.
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For a long time, I thought you could remain isolated and survive, and I didn't want to change that. But over the last three or four books, I've become more comfortable with the idea that I'm not really throwing anything away by being a bit more open about my books and life.
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Ree, brunette and sixteen, with milk skin and abrupt green eyes, stood bare-armed in a fluttering yellowed dress, face to the wind, her cheeks reddening as if smacked and smacked again.
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When I started to be a writer, I was not going to run the risk of boring you.
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But I've been at writing long enough now to know that every three or four books I have to start a new direction.
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