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Somewhere along the line I'd lost the will not to eat.

Meg Rosoff

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Meg Rosoff
Age: 68
Born: 1956
Born: October 16
Author
Novelist
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Lines
Lost
Somewhere
Line
Along

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Ask any comedian, tennis player, chef. Timing is everything.
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This was what happiness felt like - this wondrous, miraculous alternative to dread.
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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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It might go down better than appearing as a giant reptile encased in a ball of fire and forcing yourself on her.' 'WHY DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO BRING THAT UP?
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The imagination can be dangerous. It can change the world. And that is why we write.
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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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And after awhile of this my brain and my body and every single inch of me that was alive was flooded with the feeling that I was starving, starving for Edmond. And what a coincidence, that was the feeling I loved best in the world.
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My daughter is a fantastic travelling companion - she's totally organised, whereas I'm hopeless.
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I didn't seem to have that effect on anyone but it would have been a waste for both of us to be saints.
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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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Life is absolutely horrific, leading up to absolute horror.
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I frightened myself. I became the ghost Piper was so scared of.
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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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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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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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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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I can't even trust my own imaginary dog. How much lower can a person get?
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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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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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I don't get nearly enough credit in life for the things I manage not to say.
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