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When you are young, hone your craft and write shorter pieces instead of novels, because it's really hard to finish a novel.

Laini Taylor

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Laini Taylor
Age: 52
Born: 1971
Born: December 11
Author
Novelist
Writer
Chico
California
Pieces
Hone
Write
Shorter
Young
Craft
Hard
Crafts
Writing
Finish
Really
Novels
Novel
Instead

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Oh, gross. Your stomach is full of butterfly barf!
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It was brave, countered Issa. It was rare. It was love, and it was beautiful.
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It's all a quilt of fairy tales with a patch here and there of truth.
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Dead souls dream only of death. Small dreams for small men. It is life that expands to fill worlds. Life is your master, or death is
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What does true even mean when it comes to a face? Only souls are true, and when you spill them to the air they melt away.
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I will do just as you wish,' said no cat ever.
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That is your legend? Akiva asked, incredulous. Madrigal had told him the story of the sun and Ellai while they flew. That seraphim are the blood of a rapist sun?
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Icon of Prague, the medieval bridge crossed the Vltava between Old Town and the Little Quarter. Gothic bridge towers rose on both sides, and the whole span — pedestrian-only — was lined by monumental statues of saints.
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An idea fell like a seed and over the next weeks it went on growing like a fig vine lush and conquering twining round her old beliefs and covering them in new growth until they were as invisible as a tiger in a thicket and just as deadly.
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Karou saw them with her human eyes, this army she had rendered more monstrous than ever nature had, and she knew what the world would see in them if they flew to fight the Dominion: demons, nightmares, evil. The sight of the seraphim would be heralded as a miracle. But chimaera? The apocalypse.
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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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She had fallen in love with him twice. She loved him now with both loves, so overpowering it was almost unbearable.
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...the air seeming to gather around her like held breath. As if this whole place were a story about her.
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I am one of billions. I am stardust gathered fleetingly into form. I will be ungathered. The stardust will go on to be other things someday and I will be free.
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It was funny, she thought, but her smile turned wistful because she had nobody to tell.
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Like attracts like, beauty finds beauty, and freaks look on from the smoking section, aching.
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You mean he came to your school? The scandalous rodent-loaf!
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I've always been a reader and a writer.
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We are the beginning ... We always have been. This time, let it be more than a beginning.
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