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One doesn't generally look into mirrors when one is especially angry one has better things to do, like pace the floor or throw things.

Robin McKinley

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Robin McKinley
Age: 71
Born: 1952
Born: November 16
Author
Novelist
Writer
Warren
Ohio
Jennifer Carolyn Robin McKinley
Floor
Better
Pace
Look
Mirrors
Looks
Generally
Things
Throw
Like
Angry
Especially
Doesn

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All you did was sit there, he said. Why are you so tired? I sat very diligently, she said.
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Sometimes it is better not to know. Sometimes when you do know you just fold up.
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...like a grain of sand that gets into an oyster's shell. What if the grain doesn't want to become a pearl? Is it ever asked to climb out quietly and take up its old position as a bit of ocean floor?
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What you describe is how it happens to everyone: magic does slide through you, and disappear, and come back later looking like something else. And I'm sorry to tell you this, but where your magic lives will always be a great dark space with scraps you fumble for. You must learn to sniff them out in the dark.
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He looked at her rather as a man looks at a problem that he would very much prefer to do without. She supposed it was a distinction of a sort to be a harassment to a king.
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She fell asleep, leaning on his chest, and he edged her a little off a particularly painful bruise, leaned his head back against the tree he had propped them up against, and closed his own eyes.
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He will apologize, or I'll give him a lesson in swordplay he will not like at all.
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Can you trust me, he said. Not will you. Can you. Can I trust him? What do I have to lose?
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I found that the only way I could control this sorrow was not to think of [it] at all, which was almost as painful as the loss itself.
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...but with the hours I sometimes kept at the coffeehouse I had to have learned to take naps during the day or die, and I had learned to take naps. Up until five months ago something or other or die had always seemed like a plain choice in favor of the something or other.
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You are attempting to be logical, I suspect, and logic has little to do with government, and nothing at all to do with military administration.
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Laughter went on and on, like sunlight and stone, even if the human beings who laughed did not.
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I like that: a little pressure on the understood boundaries of yourself. Sounded like something out of a self-awareness class, probably with yoga. See what kind of a pretzel you can tie yourself into and press on the understood... I was raving, if only to myself.
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My capacity for invention is flash hot stark, I thought. Sucker sunshade. Disembodied radar-reconnaissance. Not to mention Bitter Chocolate Death and Killer Zebras. Pity about the rest of me.
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I've always been fascinated by the grassroots folktale level of a culture, and as a storyteller, I have to follow what seems to be leading me on.
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I don't differentiate in the way that the genre creators want differentiation to be made. I feel that I have never written children's or YA stories particularly.
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Vampire. Dangerous. Unknowable. Seriously creepy. This one's name was Constantine. We'd met before.
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The great thing about fantasy is that you can drag dreams and longings and hopes and fears and strivings out of your subconscious and call them 'magic' or 'dragons' or 'faeries' and get to know them better. But then I write the stuff. Obviously I'm prejudiced.
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I love you. I will love you till the stars crumble, which is a less idle threat than is usual to lovers on parting.
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Betrayal would be a different sort of sick.
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