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With everything so perfect, reality seemed somehow fragile, as if the slightest interruption could imperil her pretty future... all of it felt as tenuous as a soap bubble, shivering and empty.
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
Perfect
Soap
Felt
Bubbles
Imperil
Reality
Fragile
Tenuous
Everything
Somehow
Shivering
Life
Seemed
Interruption
Empty
Interruptions
Pretty
Slightest
Future
Bubble
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Money's the same, whoever gives it to you. That was the point of money, after all: crisp and clean or wrinkled or disintegrated into quarters - a dollar was always worth a hundred cents.
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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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There was a species of middle pretty who smiled at everything: happy smile, disappointed smile, you're-in-trouble smile.
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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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That was the whole point of being special: You existed to make sure everyone else behaved, but that didn't mean YOU had to.
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Let others wage war. You, lucky Austria, shall marry.
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Shay sometimes talked in a mysterious way, like she was quoting the lyrics of some band no one else listened to.
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Do you love him? Deryn swallowed, then pointed at the screen. He makes me feel like that. Like flying.
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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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Turns out if you never lie, there's always someone mad at you.
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What happens when perfection isn't good enough?
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And here in America rival newspapermen attack each other on sight?
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Suddenly a pair of searchlights lanced out from the frigate. They swept across the dark expanse - bright knives slicing the night into pieces.
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it's not called the Rusty Ruins because some guy called Rusty found them.
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