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I wasn’t sure what expression I was expecting her to wear when she saw that it was me. I’d braced myself for disgust or anger. But she just looked at me like I was — nothing. An annoyance, maybe.

Maggie Stiefvater

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Maggie Stiefvater
Age: 43
Born: 1981
Born: November 18
Novelist
Writer
Harrisonburg
Virginia
Sure
Expecting
Nothing
Anger
Like
Wear
Looked
Saws
Braced
Expression
Annoyance
Wasn
Disgust
Maybe
Disgusting

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Write the book you've always wanted to read, but can't find on the shelf.
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..and me holding this moment that was as fragile as a bird in my hands
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She wore a dress Ronan thought looked like a lampshade. Whatever sort of lamp it belonged on, Gansey clearly wished he had one. Ronan wasn't a fan of lamps.
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Oh my God. What in—” I was going to be killed by two generations of beautiful women. While naked. “Mom,” Isabel snapped, interrupting. “Do you mind not staring? It’s totally perv.
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That's a depressing and practical thought, Sam said. I'd rather it was something magical.
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He smiled tolerantly at her. Rubbing his smooth chin its recently assassinated chin hairs, he studied her. She barely came up to Ronan's shoulder, but she was every bit as big as he, every bit as present.
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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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Sam reached his hand toward mine and I automatically put my fingers in his.
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she waited to change , and i waited to change , and we both wanted what we couldn't have
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The boy had my wolf's eyes.
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whoopdie-friggin-doo, fooled you!
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here we were again , always saying good-bye
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There was something awful about terror trapped behind silence.
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There was something awful about terror trapped behind silence. About latent emotions that couldn't be acted out. Cole's thoughts on page 248 of Linger.
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I don't think I could ever give up music. It's what makes me tick. If there was no music, there would be no writing.
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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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More than anything, the journal wanted. It wanted more than it could hold, more than words could describe, more than diagrams could illustrate. Longing burst from the pages, in every frantic line and every hectic sketch and every dark-printed definition. There was something pained and melancholy about it.
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With Blue here, he was beginning to feel as if possibly he'd overdone it with the helicopter. He wondered if it would make Blue feel better or worse to know that it was Helen's helicopter, that he hadn't paid anything today for the use of it. Probably worse. Remembering his vow to at least do no harm with his words, he kept his mouth shut.
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This is a love story. I never knew there were so many kinds of love or that love could make people do so many different things. I never knew there were so many different ways to say goodbye.
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