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... and with my last thought I felt some real sympathy for those poor chickens.

Shannon Hale

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Shannon Hale
Age: 50
Born: 1974
Born: January 26
Author
Fantasy Author
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Salt Lake City
Utah
Thought
Real
Chickens
Sympathy
Poor
Lasts
Last
Felt

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Really, becoming a writer sounds more like a mental illness than a professional choice.
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I am not sure I am ready to know what I think about that, so I dare not write it out.
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Her nightmare clung to her like the smell of smoke to cloth.
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The to Cathal was battered and only one wagon wide, with swells of hard earth where mud had frozen during cold ad rainy seasons. Enna tripped often, and cursed each time she tripped, until Dasha said, Enna, you might watch your language. Enna grimaced. I was. You should hear my thoughts.
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His brothers could tease him about his height or the number of scars he was collecting on his body. He could take the joke when they said he would die having never won a fair wrestling match. But the topic of Bettin still smarted too much. He'd imagined being with her always. Now when he closed his eyes, he had trouble imagining anything else.
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Ani told them all...telling more than needed telling, the stories clarifying and unifying themselves in her mind as she let them spill out of her mouth.
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Writing a first draft and reminding myself that I'm simply shoveling sand into a box so that later I can build castles.
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Ani felt a stirring, a hope, a winged thing waking up in her chest and brushing her heart with it's feathers.
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. . . as long as there are movement and harmony, there are words.
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When you get tired of worrying and mourning your horse and trying not to be afraid, tell me and I'll do it for you a while so you can shut your eyes and sleep peaceful.
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Even the jerks earn some of our affection. We can be glad they're gone and yet still mourn the good parts.
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If you were a woman, all I'd have to say is 'Colin Firth in a wet shirt' and you'd say 'Ah.
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Careful with the accusations of insanity, oh my lady whose home is a tower with windows of brick, all for the sake of some skinny-ankled, laugh-prone boy of a khan.
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My friends call me by my name. You don't have any friends. I don't want you to be my friend, Selia, or my servant, not now. I thought you were both. You have let me know I was wrong. So are you to treat me so. You are wrong.
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It was karma, it was kismet, it was magic. It doesn't matter how it happened, just that it did.
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You are my butterfly and refuse to set you free.
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Truth is when your mind and your gut agree.
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And Isi always listened, never told Enna she had been foolish, never said hollow things like 'You'll be all right.' . . . Isi saw Enna's struggle and her sadness, and she understood.
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