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I told myself it was the snow—she couldn’t possibly get to Philadelphia on the roads. I told myself a hundred lies. Children do that. It’s amazing the sorts of things you’ll make yourself believe.

Libba Bray

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Libba Bray
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: March 11
Novelist
Writer
Texas
United States
Couldn
Hundred
Philadelphia
Told
Roads
Lying
Sorts
Children
Possibly
Believe
Snow
Make
Amazing
Things
Lies

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I don't have time to feel sorry for myself. I've got to think.
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The wolf was at the door. His shadow spilled into the room, taking it over.
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We all do things we desperately wish we could undo. Those regrets just become part of who we are, along with everything else. To spend time trying to change that, well, it's like chasing clouds.
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It's always darkest before the ultimate sparkle.
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You are truly Satan's sequined spawn.
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Board the cows! We've come to enslave your marigolds.
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I'm just saying it's not all sand castles and ninjas.
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Why does everyone want to own me? Pippa mumbles. She's got her head in her hands. Why do they all want to control my life -- how I look, whom I see, what I do or don't do? Why can't they just let me alone? Because you're beautiful, Ann answers, watching the fire lick her palm. People always think they can own beautiful things.
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But what was the point of living so quietly you made no noise at all?
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There is a time in every life when paths are chosen, character is forged. I could have chosen a different path. But I didn’t. I failed myself.
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I can be whatever. You can be whatever. We can be whatever. Whatever, together.
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What kind of person doesn't let you have gummi bears?
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