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He smiled in a way that made me want to kiss him right on the spot. Or the lips. Whichever was closer.

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
Lips
Right
Whichever
Made
Smiled
Way
Spot
Spots
Closer
Kiss
Kissing

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... and with my last thought I felt some real sympathy for those poor chickens.
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Saying my story makes me want to change it, make it sound pretty the way I do with the stories I tell the workers. I'd like it to have a beginning as grand as a ball and an ending in a whisper, like a mother tucking in a child for sleep.
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There you go...let it all slide out. Unhappiness can't stick in a person's soul when it's slick with tears.
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Listen to your second thought, or the third might be too late.
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Razo hopped back up and adopted a posture that said he was completely unruffled, never had been, and in fact was ready to do something manly like lift boulders or swallow live worms.
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Smell is the voice of the soul.
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You saw my leg? How can a man help what he sees? he said. And, if I could add, you possess a very fine leg.
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The book smelled dusty and old but also carried a sweet tang, a hint of something inviting. She opened to the first page and started to read, pronouncing the words in a reverent whisper.
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Poor gosling. It hurts to be lost. And worse to be home with no kind of homecoming...I'll be lucky if I can do as well as you when all this's done, just a bit out of breath, a bit bruised and scratched, a bit wiser and sadder for it all.
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And new, too. Remade. Ready to move again. Listening was the start, she decided. Doing was the next step.
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Her nightmare clung to her like the smell of smoke to cloth.
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The woman gestured to a seat and put on a patient face. An impatient sort of patient face, like an impatient face dressing up as a patient one for Halloween.
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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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But when she turned her back to the lights, she saw that the night was so dark...She could not see the stars. The world felt as high as the depthless night sky and deeper than she could know. She understood, suddenly and keenly, that she was too small to run away, and she sat on the damp ground and cried.
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I cannot write to anyone outside myself--if I tried, it would be a horrible story, flat and lifeless. I write to myself. That's the only person I'm trying to please.
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Why was the judgement of the disapproving so valuable? Who said that their good opinions tended to be any more rational than those of generally pleasant people?
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Mama used to say, you have to know someone a thousand days before you can glimpse her soul.
Shannon Hale
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Really, becoming a writer sounds more like a mental illness than a professional choice.
Shannon Hale
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...Speaking of, I've been playing with the letters - Lovers In a Very Enlightened Regard. LIVER. Good one. Also, how about Life Invasion Via Exceptional Respect? Life Invasion. Like it. Or Lovelike Intensity Via Emotional Rapport. Doesn't that spell OLIVER?
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They weren't nice words he said. He could've lived a good life and died never having made a person feel rubbed down to bones and too sad to hold together.
Shannon Hale