Quote

If I ever form a clan, we'll be the anti-cheerleaders and walk under the bleacher forming mild acts of mayhem.

Laurie Halse Anderson

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Laurie Halse Anderson
Age: 63
Born: 1961
Born: October 23
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Laurie Beth Halse
Form
Cheerleader
Ever
Mild
Forming
Anarchy
Bleachers
Anti
Cheerleaders
Acts
Clan
Walk
Mayhem
Walks
Clans

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I wanted to pull down a book, open it proper, and gobble up page after page
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be aggressive, BE-BE Aggressive! B-E A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E
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I pull my lower lip all the way in between my teeth. If I try hard enough, maybe I can gobble my whole self this way.... I didn't try hard enough to swallow myself.
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Art without emotion its like chocolate cake without sugar. It makes you gag.
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Gossip is the foul smell from the Devil's backside.
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You were born with the seeds of your talent, the ability to observe the world around you and weave piece of it into a story. I believe that most -- if not all -- people are born with these seeds. What separates the writers from the non-writers is that the writers actually sit down and, you know... write.
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My English teacher has no face. She has uncombed stringy hair that droops on her shoulders. The hair is black from her part to her ears and then neon orange to the frizzy ends. I can't decide if she had pissed off her hairdresser or is morphing into a monarch butterfly. I call her Hairwoman.
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The stars whirled above us and the firecrackers blazed. The moon stood watch as drops of blood fell, careless seeds that sizzled in the snow.
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I keep thinking that if I could just unzip my skin, step out of this body, then I would see who I really am.“ She nods her head slowly. „What do you think you‘d look like?” “Smaller, for a start.
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Death is funny, when you think about it. Everybody does it, but nobody knows how, exactly how.
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Mr. Freeman: You are getting better at this, but it's not good enough. This looks like a tree,but it is an average, ordinary, everyday, boring tree. Breathe life into it. Make it bend - trees are flexible, so they don't snap. Scar it, give it a twisted branch - perfect trees don't exist. Nothing is perfect. Flaws are interesting. Be the tree.
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I can see us, living in the woods, her wearing that A, me with a S maybe, S for silent, S for stupid, for scared. S for silly. For shame.
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I don't say anything and I feel awful. I tell somebody and I feel worse. I'm having trouble finding a middle ground.
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Dead girl walking” the boys say in the halls. “Tell us your secrets” the girls whisper, one toilet to another. I am that girl. I am the spaces between my thighs, daylight shinning through. I am the bones they want, wired on a porcelain frame.
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There is nothing wrong with me. These are really sick people, sick that you can see.
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I’m the girl who trips on the dance floor and can’t find her way to the exit. All eyes on me.
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Here stands a girl clutching a knife. There is grease on the stove, blood in the air, and angry words piled in the corners. We are trained not to see it, not to see any of it. . . . Someone just ripped off my eyelids.
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It is my first morning of high school. I have seven new notebooks, a skirt I hate, and a stomachache.
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I am the space between my thighs, daylight shining through.
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A little kid asks my dad why that man is chopping down the tree. Dad: He's not chopping it down. He's saving it. Those branches were long dead from disease. All plants are like that. By cutting off the damage you make it possible for the tree to grow again. You watch - by the end of summer, this tree will be the strongest on the block.
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