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Do you ever find yourself climbing into an open grave during a bombing raid and wish you'd just stayed in bed?

Ransom Riggs

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Ransom Riggs
Age: 45
Born: 1979
Born: February 3
Film Director
Journalist
Photographer
Screenwriter
Writer
Maryland
United States
Grave
Graves
Bed
Open
Wish
Raid
Find
Bombing
Ever
Stayed
Climbing

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Sometimes it's better not to look back.
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I never remember nice dreams only the bad ones stick.
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I had just come to accept that my life would be ordinary when extraordinary things began to happen. The first of these came as a terrible shock and, like anything that changes you forever, split my life into halves: Before and After.
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We cling to our fairy tales until the price for believing in them becomes too high.
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Maybe it was better, now and then, to wonder.
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I'd been born in the wrong century, and I felt cheated.
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What I believe when it comes to big things in life, there are no accidents. Everything happens for a reason. You are here for a reason - and it's not to fail and die.
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It's easy to say you don't care about money when you have plenty of it.
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I'm no expert on girls, but when one tries to pinch you four times, I'm pretty sure that's flirting
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I had been writing since I was pretty small, and I've always been telling these stories about doors and finding other worlds within our own.
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If I'd kept my heart better armored, where would I be now?
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If you must fail ... fail spectacularly!
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I just like that balance of the real and the fantastical because as a reader and consumer of stories and fantasy, I always want to feel like I can find that world.
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Laughing doesn't make bad things worse any more than crying makes them better. It doesn't mean you don't care, or that you've forgotten. It just means you're human.
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My portal to another world was fiction.
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I used to dream about escaping my ordinary life, but my life was never ordinary. I had simply failed to notice how extraordinary it was.
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There was a girl who could fly, a boy who had bees living inside him, a brother and sister who could lift boulders over their heads.
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Our debt was too great and the words thank you too small.
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But these weren't the kind of monsters that had tentacles and rotting skin, the kind a seven-year-old might be able to wrap his mind around-they were monsters with human faces, in crisp uniforms, marching in lockstep, so banal you don't recognize them for what they are until it's too late.
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I had just come to accept that my life would be ordinary when extraordinary things began to happen.
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