Quote

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
Way
Spot
Spots
Closer
Kiss
Kissing
Lips
Right
Whichever
Made
Smiled

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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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Make haste” Jane added, just because she always wanted to say that.
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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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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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He would never abandon her, never leave a gaping hole, and even if he died someday, he was preserved like a lab specimen from all the alcohol he imbibed, so he wouldn't look or act much different.
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Some people are born with the first word of a language resting on their tongue though it may take some time before they can taste it.
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Oh land of farms and green hills mild Once formed by giants rough and wild With massive paws they gripped and tore With one great rip they formed the shore Where heavy boots left prints so deep Blue lakes remain 'tween summits steep The giants fought beneath our skies And from their bones our mountains rise
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A heart is a heart in a child or a man.
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There's nothing more aggravating in the world than the midnight sniffling of the person you've decided to hate.
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As a general rule, writing is very inconvenient.
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Uge, save me from the sauce of their loveyness-raso Forest Born
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No one had ever called her wild before. She wanted to be wild now, for him. Wild seemed more enticing then a bowl of berries.
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She closed the book and put her cheek against it. There was still an odor of a library on it, of dust, leather, binding glue, and old paper, one book carrying the smell of hundreds.
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Ah, now, don't cry over lost years and forgetfulness. The tales tell what they can. The rest is for us to learn.
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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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Her eyes were distant, and she seemed to be listening to that voice that first told her the story, a mother, sister, or aunt. Then her voice, like her singing, cut through the crickets and crackling fire.
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Throwing herself into learning helped Miri ignore the painful chill of solitude around her.
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Sometimes my fancy gets to floating inside me, threatening to carry me away like a leaf on a wind. Better to be a stone.
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...all things speak, in their way, don't they?
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