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I frightened myself. I became the ghost Piper was so scared of.

Meg Rosoff

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Meg Rosoff
Age: 68
Born: 1956
Born: October 16
Author
Novelist
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Became
Pipers
Piper
Frightened
Ghost
Scared

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It's a strange sensation to live inside another person's life, to wonder all the time what he is doing, or thinking or feeling.
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The imagination can be dangerous. It can change the world. And that is why we write.
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Ask any comedian, tennis player, chef. Timing is everything.
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I've noticed that the magic getting along with someone isn't really magic. If you break it down, you can see how it happens. You say something a bit off-center and see if they react. If they get it, they push it a bit further. Then it's your turn again. And theirs. And so on, until it's banter. Once it's banter, it's friendship.
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I guess the difference between Gin and me is that when Gin got shut in the barn she thought Edmond didn't love her anymore but because I could feel Edmond out there somewhere always loving me I didn't have to howl all night.
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Your writing voice is the deepest possible reflection of who you are. The job of your voice is not to seduce or flatter or make well-shaped sentences. In your voice, your readers should be able to hear the contents of your mind, your heart, your soul.
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The real truth is that the war didn't have much to do with it except that it provided a perfect limbo in which two people who were too young and too related could start kissing without anything or anyone making us stop.
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If you haven't been in a war and are wondering how long it takes to get used to losing everything you think you need or love, I can tell you the answer is no time at all.
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The soldier had stamped my passport FAMILY in heavy black capital letters and I checked it now for reassurance and because I liked how fierce the word looked
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Life is absolutely horrific, leading up to absolute horror.
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My daughter is a fantastic travelling companion - she's totally organised, whereas I'm hopeless.
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When you read a book, the neurons in your brain fire overtime, deciding what the characters are wearing, how they're standing, and what it feels like the first time they kiss. No one shows you. The words make suggestions. Your brain paints the pictures.
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This was what happiness felt like - this wondrous, miraculous alternative to dread.
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I guess there was a war going on somewhere in the world that night but it wasn't one that could touch us.
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Self-knowledge is essential not only to writing, but to doing almost anything really well. It allows you to work through from a deep place - from the deep, dark corners of your subconscious mind.
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At the time, I didn't have the insight to wonder at the transient nature of despair, but now that I'm older I've seen how little it takes to turn a person's life around for better or worse. An event will do, or an Idea. Another person. An idea of a person.
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Somewhere along the line I'd lost the will not to eat.
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And still the brain continues to yearn, continues to burn, foolishly, with desire. My old man's brain is mocked by a body that still longs to stretch in the sun and form a beautiful shape in someone else's gaze, to lie under a blue sky and dream of helpless, selfless love, to behold itself, illuminated, in the golden light of another's eyes.
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It was not a big smile, not particularly bold or polite or ironic or glib, not asking for anything or offering anything, not stringy or careless, not, in short, like any smile I had ever experienced before. But such a smile! You could burn a hole in the world with that smile.
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I can't even trust my own imaginary dog. How much lower can a person get?
Meg Rosoff