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I tried to picture her in a class, any class, anywhere on campus, and failed miserably. I pictured her frolicking in a forest glade around some guy she'd just sacrificed to a heathen god. That image worked way better.
Maggie Stiefvater
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Maggie Stiefvater
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: November 18
Novelist
Writer
Harrisonburg
Virginia
Class
Forest
Guy
Failed
Frolicking
Around
Forests
Glade
Better
Anywhere
Miserably
Way
Image
Pictured
Picture
Heathen
Worked
Sacrificed
Tried
Campus
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The dog pranced delightedly around his feet as if he'd been gone to another planet instead of merely underneath a car.
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She recognized the strange happiness that came from loving something without knowing why you did, that strange happiness that was sometimes so big that it felt like sadness. It was the way she felt when she looked at the stars.
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when we're married, can we go to the ocean? I've never been
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I was suddenly struck by how dissimilar we were. It occurred to me that if Grace and I were objects, she would be an elaborate digital clock, synced up with the World Clock in London with technical perfection, and I’d be a snow globe – shaken memories in a glass ball.
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Hello, lovely. You're as pretty as pretty today.
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I have a certain avoidance of reality that makes fantasy an ideal choice for me.
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She reached down and traced my eyebrows. 'You do have really beautiful eyes.' 'We get to keep them,' I said. Grace started at my voice. 'What?' 'It's the one thing we keep. Our eyes stay the same.' I unclenched my fists. 'I was born with these eyes. I was born for this life.
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It (suicide) became a possibility like Maybe when I grow up, I will be dead. Life was a cake that looked good on the bakery shelf but turned to sawdust and salt when I ate it.
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She wasn't interested in telling other people's futures. She was interested in going out and finding her own.
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He left Chainsaw behind, much to her irritation. Ronan didn't want her to learn any bad language.
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Sam looked at me, yellow eyes catching and holding me. I miss being me. I miss you. All the time.
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That's a depressing and practical thought, Sam said. I'd rather it was something magical.
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Adam had once told Gansey, Rags to riches isn't a story anyone wants to hear until after it's done.
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Sean reaches out between us and takes my wrist. He press his thumb on my pulse. My heartbeat trips and surges against his skin. I'm pinned by his touch, a sort of fearful magic. We stand and stand, and I wait for my pulse against his finger to slow, but it doesn't Finally, he releases my wrist and says, I'll see you on the cliffs tomorrow.
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Death smells like birthday cake.
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Aren't you afraid?' 'Of what?' 'Of losing yourself.' 'That's what I'm hoping for.
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There was something unbearably sexy about cars at night, Ronan thought. The way the fenders twisted the light and reflected the road, the way every driver became anonymous. The sight of them knocked his heartbeat askew.
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Overhead, the stars were wheeling and infinite, a complicated mobile made by giants.
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You're not going to die, I told her, lifting my head to look at her. I'm not done writing songs about you yet.
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In the end, you have to write like you're not afraid of the critics.
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