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The lie took form as she spoke, pulling on as many strands of truth as it could reach.

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
Many
Spokes
Spoke
Pulling
Reach
Took
Lying
Form
Truth
Strands

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I love my virginity to the apocalypse.
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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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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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She thought of the orchids spreading across the plains below, choking the life out of other plants, out of the soil itself, selfish and unstoppable. Tally Youngblood was a weed. And, unlike the orchids, she wasn't even a pretty one.
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you dont see me, now you do, but only if i want you to
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It's just been a long week, that's all. It's monday night, Jess. My point exactly.
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All that glitters is not hovery.
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What you do, the way you think, makes you beautiful.
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A rat called Possible New Strain was sitting under a spaghetti strainer held down with a pile of journalism textbooks, saying rude things in rat-speak.
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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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Plot idea: 97% of the world's scientists contrive an environmental crisis, but are exposed by a plucky band of billionaires & oil companies.
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He and I have this... personality conflict. Namely, I think he should get a new one.
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He squeezed her hand. Then I'll come get you, wherever you are when it happens. We'll be okay. But what about everybody else? He stared out across the river, nodding slowly. My guess is, everybody else is in big trouble.
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The Internet is global and seemingly omniscient, while iPods and phones are all microscopic workings encased in plastic blobjects. Compare that to a steam engine, where you can watch the pistons move and feel the heat of its boilers. I think we miss that visceral appeal of the machine.
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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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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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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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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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So, there was this beautiful princess. She was locked in a high tower(...)She was stuck up there(...)So the only thing was to jump.
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Come on, it's almost midnight. Let's go watch them cut the cake.
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