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Their reasons don't mean anything unless I have a choice.

Scott Westerfeld

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Scott Westerfeld
Age: 61
Born: 1963
Born: May 5
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Dallas
Texas
Scott David Westerfeld
Choices
Anything
Reason
Mean
Reasons
Choice
Unless

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Come on, it's almost midnight. Let's go watch them cut the cake.
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Didn't this beat everything? A pretty and an ugly taking a stroll together. The warden came closer, confusion all over his middle-pretty face. Tally smiled. At least she was causing trouble to the end. I'm Tally Youngblood, she said. Make me pretty.
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Everyone in the world was programmed by the place they were born, hemmed in by their beliefs, but you had to at least try to grow your own brain.
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She couldn't disappoint the whole village. There were no wallscreens here, no newsfeeds or satellites bands, and touring soccer teams were no doubt few and far between. (...), that made stories a valuable commodity, and it probably wasn't very often that a stranger dropped in from the sky.
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That was one problem with dramatic exits: Sometimes they wound up making you look like a bubblehead.
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She carried a knife inside of herself now, one that was always cutting her. She could feel it every time she swallowed, every time her thoughts strayed from the splendor of the wild.
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The early summer sky was the color of cat vomit. Of course, Tally thought, you’d have to feed your cat only salmon-flavored cat food for a while, to get the pinks right.
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If you see everything through hovercams and feed stories, you wind up blind to what's right in front of you.
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Typographical laziness was slowly destroying our culture, according to Lexa and her pals. Inexactitude was death.
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There was a species of middle pretty who smiled at everything: happy smile, disappointed smile, you're-in-trouble smile.
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Around the outskirts of the city, cut off from town by the black oval of the river, everything was in darkness. Everyone ugly was in bed by now.
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But you weren't born expecting that kind of beauty in everyone, all the time. You just got programmed into thinking anything else is ugly.
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Frighteningly Beautiful, Dangerously Strong, Breathtakingly Fast. Face it Tally-wa you're special.
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Surely no one would ever use such a weapon against a city. There are no limits in war, Volger said, still staring out the window.
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You see, freedom has a way of destroying things.
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Oh, this beast? It's...perspicacious loris. 'Perspicacious' meaning 'wise or canny'. Get stuffed, Bovril said, then giggled. And it insults people, Telsa said. How peculiar.
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She wasn't here to gawk. She was an infiltrator, a sneak, an ugly. And she had a mission.
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The world rests upon a turtle, which itself stands on the back of an elephant!” Alek tried not to laugh. “Then what does the elephant stand on, madam?” “Don’t try to be clever, young man.” She narrowed her eyes. “It’s elephants all the way down!
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I used to be a pre-industrial writer: thousands of words in a spurt and then a few days off. But as I get older, I've switched to a mode best described as 'slow and steady wins the race.' Basically, I write during the same four hours every day, after breakfast and the all-important coffee, generally in the same room and wearing the same pajamas.
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