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I'm not sure there are enough white roses in the world to make me forget Richard. I held up my hand before she could interrupt. But I'm not sure there are enough cozy afternoons in all eternity to make me forget Jean-Claude.

Laurell K. Hamilton

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Laurell K. Hamilton
Age: 61
Born: 1963
Born: February 19
Novelist
Writer
Heber Springs
Arkansas
Laurell Kaye Hamilton
Hand
Cozy
Sure
Jean
Forget
Roses
White
Richard
Hands
Afternoon
Enough
Held
Claude
Make
Rose
Afternoons
World
Eternity
Interrupt

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What do you do when you know you are breaking someone's heart, but to do anything else would break your own?
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One of my rules is never explain. A writer is a lot like a magician, if you explain how the trick works then a lot of the magic turns mundane.
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Anyone who doesn't believe that the forest is a deadly place has never been lost in one.
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The rich and powerful always seem to prefer the tops of buildings. Hasn't anyone ever explained to them that higher just means you have farther to fall? -- Anita Blake
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Silk didn't care if it slid over scars or smooth, untouched skin. I'd earned my right to be paranoid.
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I tried to picture a young, insecure Edward and couldn't, but it was nice to know that once he'd been a boy. Sometimes it felt like Edward had sprung full grown from the head of some violent deity,like a vicious version of Athena.
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Nothing is more appealing than a handsome man who is also uncertain of himself.
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I'm not afraid of heights, but the idea of falling from them, well, that I'm afraid of.
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No name-calling truly bites deep unless, in some dark part of us, we believe it. If we are confident enough then it is just noise.
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When you dance with the devil, it might as well be a devil who can give you your own corner of hell to rule.
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Fear will keep you alive indifference won't.
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Sometimes it's not the optimist you need, but another pessimist to walk beside you.
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Jason patted me on the back. “Tomorrow night we'll take you out chasing deer.” “I thought you'd chase cars,” I said. He grinned. “What fun is that? Cars don't bleed.
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The best lies are always at least partially true.
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I hate to shop. I consider it one of life's necessary evils, like brussels sprouts and high-heeled shoes.
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If you think love makes you happy, you've either never been in love, or never been in love long enough to have to start compromising.
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So many wonderful books to write, and not enough hours in the day. An embarrassment of riches.
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Can you truly love anyone if you do not first love yourself? If you hate yourself, can you love anyone else? If you do not accept all of who you are, can you accept anyone else? Hard questions. It remains to be seen whether I get any answers, hard, or otherwise.
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