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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.
Maggie Stiefvater
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Maggie Stiefvater
Age: 43
Born: 1981
Born: November 18
Novelist
Writer
Harrisonburg
Virginia
Give
Music
Ever
Giving
Writing
Would
Think
Tick
Thinking
Makes
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I can't tell the difference, I said. Between not fighting and giving up.
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I'd learned a long time ago that one of the finest weapons in my arsenal was my ability to invade personal space
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His face was just strange enough that she wanted to keep looking at it.
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I adore book-to-film adaptations when they're done well, and I'm more lenient than many readers when it comes to what counts as 'done well.' For me, the most important thing is that the film maintains the spirit of the original book.
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The tourists always seem to want something. On Thisby, it's less about wanting, and more about being. I wonder after I say it if he'll think I sound like have no drive or ambition.
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Or even tell me it's because you could not live without The Boy's stunning Boyfruits for another night... Sam's face was twisted into a weird shape at the mention of his Boyfruits.
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I hear laughter and someone asks if I need help, not in a nice way. I snarl, What I need is for your mother to have thought a little harder nine months before your birthday.
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I folded myself against her body, breathing in the smell of my new life and matching my heartbeat to hers Sam, Linger
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As teenagers, we all see ourselves as outsiders... and it's very easy to look at other people who are more popular, who have more pocket money, and it makes you feel even more like an outsider, and it does shape who you become as a person.
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I wish you could be kissed, Jane,' he said. 'Because I would beg just one off you. Under all this.' He flailed an arm toward the stars.
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Have you heard of the legends of sleeping kings? The legends that heroes like Llewellyn and Glendower and Arthur aren’t really dead, but are instead sleeping in tombs, waiting to be woken?
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You're beautiful and sad, I said finally, not looking at him when I did. Just like your eyes. You're like a song that I heard when I was a little kid but forgot I knew until I heard it again. For a long moment there was only the whirring sound of the tires on the road, and then Sam said softly, Thank you.
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To Grace, these were the things that mattered: my hands on her cheeks, my lips on her mouth. The fleeting touches that meant I loved her.
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He was brother to a liar and brother to an angel, son of a dream and son of a dreamer.
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When did you get so smart? He tapped his forehead. Brain transplant. They put in a whale's. I'm passing all my classes with my eyes closed now, but I just can't get over this craving for krill. He shrugged. And I feel sorry for the whale that got my brain. Probably swimming around Florida now trying to catch glimpses of girls in bikinis.
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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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Death smells like birthday cake.
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It was a life I didn’t want to leave behind.It was a life I didn’t want to forget.
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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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We don't have time to be sad
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