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Grace reached over and began stroking her fingers through my hair. I closed my eyes and let her drive me crazy.

Maggie Stiefvater

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Maggie Stiefvater
Age: 43
Born: 1981
Born: November 18
Novelist
Writer
Harrisonburg
Virginia
Drive
Fingers
Hair
Grace
Crazy
Stroking
Eyes
Closed
Eye
Reached
Began

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I could still smell her on my fur. It clung to me, a memory of another world. I was drunk with it, with the scent of her. I'd got too close. The smell of summer on her skin, the half-recalled cadence of her voice, the sensation of her fingers on my fur. Every bit of me sang with the memory of her closeness. Too close. I couldn't stay away.
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I feel like I have so many stories basting in my mind, and they come busting out when they're ready.
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Gansey had no idea how old Blue was. He knew she'd just finished eleventh grade. Maybe she was sixteen. Maybe she was eighteen. Maybe she was twenty-two and just very short and remedial.
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Well,” said Ronan, “I hope he likes it. I’ve pulled a muscle.” Gansey scoffed, “Doing what? You were standing watch.” “Opening my hood.
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You're getting your weird all over me.
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I had risked everything, and I had nothing to show for it but my open hand, lying empty and palm up toward the ceiling.
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The Boy should watch where he’s going,” she said. “Rachel should not manifest in doorways,” I replied.
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He's a pit bull, Adam said. I know some really nice pit bulls. He's the kind of pit that makes the evening news. Gansey's trying to restrain him. How noble.
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I have to walk dogs. Oh, Gansey replied, sounding deflated. Well, okay. But it'll only take an hour. Oh, he repeated, about fourteen shades brighter. Shall I pick you up, then?
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Teenagers want to be able to fight for what's right - but finding out what's right is now 90 percent of the battle.
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Cole made a hissing sound. Are you inside yet? God bless America and all her sons. What is taking you so long? The front door was locked. Here, talk to Grace Mommy isn't going to give a different answer than Daddy, Cole said, but I handed her the phone anyway.
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There was something awful about terror trapped behind silence.
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My good mood felt like an endangered species.
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Oh, I'll buy fourteen dresses and build a road and name it after myself and try one of everything at Palsson's. Though I don't quite look up, I can still feel his gaze on me. It's a heavy thing, this look of his. He says, What's the real answer?
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In his head, his mother said, 'People shout when they don’t have the vocabulary to whisper'.
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He was struck by the details of the moment. This was something he needed to remember, when he dreamt. This feeling right here: heart thudding, pollen sticky on his fingertips, July pricking sweat at his breastbone, the smell of gasoline and someone else's charcoal grill.
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His lips tasted cool and sharp, peppermint, winter, but his hands, soft on the back of my neck, promised long days and summer and forever.
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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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The walls of the arch are covered with blood-red jellies that wink and glisten at me by the light of the moon. My father told me they were completely harmless. I don't believe him. Nothing is completely harmless.
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