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Have you ever heard sculptors say that they don’t actually sculpt an object they sculpt away everything that isn’t the object?

Rainbow Rowell

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Rainbow Rowell
Age: 51
Born: 1973
Born: February 24
Author
Journalist
Novelist
Prosaist
Writer
NE
Everything
Sculpt
Sculptors
Object
Objects
Heard
Actually
Away
Ever

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He always kept me just on the edge of crazy. Feeling like I wanted him too much, which just made me want him more. That sounds excruciating.
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I don’t trust anybody. Not anybody. And the more that I care about someone, the more sure I am they’re going to get tired of me and take off.
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That’s because you ooze preemptive leave-me-alone death rays.
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Everybody drinks, she said calmly. The Only Rational One. Your sister doesn't. When rolled her eyes. Forgive me, but I'm not going to spend my college years sitting soberly in my dorm room, writing about gay magicians. Objection, Cath said, reaching for a burrito.
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Cath wished she didn't use the word just so much. It was her passive-aggressive tell, like someone who twitched when they were lying.
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Well, I'm writing everything that isn't my final project, so that when I actually sit down to write it, that's all that will be left in my mind.
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I love you more than I hate everything else.
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You know, he said, I keep wanting to say that it's like Simon Snow threw up in here... but it's more like someone else ate Simon Snow—like somebody went to an all-you-care-to-eat Simon Snow buffet—and then threw up in here.
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I'm sort of...coming off a bad relationship, When did it end? Slightly before it started.
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All of her bones seemed more purposeful than other people’s. Like they weren’t just there to hold her up, they were there to make a point.
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Months are different in college, especially freshman year. Too much happens. Every freshman month equals six regular months—they're like dog months.
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It felt good to be writing in her own room, in her own bed. To get lost in the World of Mages and stay lost. To not hear any voices in her head but Simon's and Baz's. Not even her own. This was why Cath wrote fic. For these hours when their world supplanted the real world.
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I don't want to do anything. I don't even want to start this day because then I'll just be expected to finish it.
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Cath wanted to go back and rewrite every scene she'd ever written about Baz or Simon's chests. She'd written them flat and sharp and hard. Levi was all soft motion and breath, curves and warm hollows. Levi's chest was a living thing.
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But he kept finding new pockets of shallow inside himself. He kept finding new ways to betray her.
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Dumb. He should have gotten the pen. Jewelry was so public... and personal, which was why he'd bought it. He couldn't buy Eleanor a pen. Or a bookmark. He didn't have bookmarklike feelings for her.
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For the first time in weeks, Park didn't have that anxious feeling in his stomach on the way home from school, like he had to soak up enough Eleanor to keep him until the next day.
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Ophelia was bonkers, right? And Juliet was what, a sixth-grader?
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Until this moment, she’d kept Park in a place in her head that she thought Richie couldn't get to. Completely separate from this house and everything that happened here. (It was a pretty awesome place. Like the only part of her head fit for praying.)
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I wonder…,” she said, “if there was such a thing as time machines, would anyone ever use them to go to the future?
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