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I've always imagined that one day the path of your life would unroll at your feet and carry you away from us. As it should, as it must. But I am glad that day is not today.

Laini Taylor

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Laini Taylor
Age: 52
Born: 1971
Born: December 11
Author
Novelist
Writer
Chico
California
Today
Must
Imagined
Always
Glad
Would
Carry
Life
Feet
Path
Away

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To a new generation of butterflies, hopefully less stupid than last. Maybe they were burgeoning even now in fat little cocoons. Or maybe not.
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And I've found that since you can't electrify yourself like a fence, the next best thing is to have murderer's eyes.
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Thank you, but we respectfully decline your overture, being more enjoyably occupied at present.
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If he does he's a fool, said Hazael. The message is clear. Please enjoy this lovely fruit while contemplating all the ways we might kill you in your sleep.
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My tiny scary friend is coming
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This is the story of the curse and the kiss, the demon and the girl. It's a love story with dancing and death in it, and singing and souls and shadows reeled out on kite strings.
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I'm afraid they're in love, he said, concerned. They don't want to leave you. He lifted one hand from her waist to gently brush a pair from her neck, where their wings fanned against her jaw. Melancholy, he said, I know just how they feel.
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Cats and ghosts both partook of the saucers of milk and that was okay. They consumed different parts of it: the cats its substance, the ghosts its essence, and none went to waste.
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I am stardust gathered fleetingly into form.
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The two of them were stoic and stone-faced and ten feet apart, currently not even looking at each other, but Zuzana had the impression of a pair of magnets pretending not to be magnets. Which, you know, only works until it doesn't.
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Once upon a time, there were two moons, who were sisters. Nitid was the goddess of tears and life, and the sky was hers. No one worshipped Ellai but secret lovers.
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Dialogue is the place that books are most alive and forge the most direct connection with readers. It is also where we as writers discover our characters and allow them to become real.
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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.
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No, tiny violent one.
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You really think joy is easier to come by than pain? What have you had more of?
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A thousand things might have stopped me from being here right now, but instead, a thousand things brought me here.
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I start to wonder if I’m being creepy. I mean, I am creeping. Does creep-ing automatically make one creep-y? Or are there dispensations for…romance? I bet all stalkers believe they’re being romantic. I did it for love, officer.
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Life doesn’t need magic to be magical. (But a little bit sure doesn’t hurt.)
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Is that all souls are for? For when we die? No. They're for living, too.
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Her courage was a guise. She wondered if courage always was, or if there were those who truly felt no fear.
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