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She felt like a fictional character who'd escaped the book in which her creator had carefully and kindly trapped her, taken a pair of scissors to her outline and leaped, free.

Kate Morton

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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Free
Kindly
Felt
Outlines
Character
Pair
Book
Pairs
Leaped
Like
Trapped
Scissors
Carefully
Outline
Creator
Fictional
Taken
Escaped

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I love the structural part of the writing process.
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That, my dear, is what makes a character interesting, their secrets.
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She'd slept terribly the night before. The room, the bed, were both comfortable enough, but she'd been plagued with strange dreams, the sort that lingered upon waking but slithered away from memory as she tried to grasp them. Only the tendrils of discomfort remained.
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You'll beat this. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you will. You're a survivor. I don't want to survive it. I know that, too, Nell had said. And it's fair enough. But sometimes we don't have a choice.
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My fingers positively itched to drift at length along their spines, to arrive at one whose lure I could not pass, to pluck it down, to inch it open, then to close my eyes and inhale the soul-sparking scent of old and literate dust.
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Sometimes, Edie, a person's feelings aren't rational. At least, they don't seem that way on the surface. You have to dig a little deeper to understand what lies at the base
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The certainty that she would find what it was she sought just slipped away, until one night she knew there was nothing, no one waiting for her. That no matter how far she walked, how carefully she searched, how much she wanted to find the person she was looking for, she was alone - The Forgotten Garden
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She was the breeze on a summer's day, the first drops of rain when the earth was parched, light from the evening star.
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I want to be independent. To meet interesting people. ... I just mean new people with clever things to say. Things I've never heard before. I want to be free. Open to whatever adventure comes along and sweeps me off my feet.
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In each man's heart there lies a hole. A dark abyss of need, the filling of which takes precedence over all else.
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Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .
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Cassandra always hid when she read, though she never quite knew why. It was as if she couldn't shake the guilty suspicion that she was being lazy, that surrendering herself so completely to something so enjoyable must surely be wrong. But surrender she did. Let herself drop through the rabbit hole and into a tale of magic and mystery.
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It was such a pleasure to sink one's hands into the warm earth, to feel at one's fingertips the possibilities of the new season.
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She's one of the few people able to look beyond the lines on my face to see the twenty-year-old who lives inside.
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She either confused me with a much older child or else she glimpsed deep inside my soul and perceived a hole that needed filling. I've always chosen to believe the latter. After all, it's the librarian's one sworn purpose to bring books together with their one true reader.
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Doors lead to things and I've never met one I haven't wanted to open.
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Gerry?' Laurel had to strain to hear thought the noise on the other end of the line. 'Gerry? Where are you?' 'London. A phone booth on Fleet Street.' 'The city still has working phone booths?' 'It would appear so. Unless this is the Tardis, in which case I'm in serious trouble.
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A twinge at the edge of her lips and she continued, the soft, slow lilt of recitation: Ancient walls that sing the distant hours.
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Oh, Grey, no one really likes keeping secrets. The only thing that makes a secret fun is knowing that you weren't supposed to tell it.
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After all, it's the librarian's sworn purpose to bring books together with their one true reader.
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