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Go on, son, you're not doing me any good by bleeding.

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
Good
Bleeding
Son

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... and with my last thought I felt some real sympathy for those poor chickens.
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No more crying. It's all wetness and no comfort at all.
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I couldn’t remember the last time I had stayed up into the squeaky hours of the night because I couldn’t put a book down, and that was a tragedy.
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Geric, she called. He turned back around. What kind of flowers were they? I don't rightly know, he said. He made faltering gestures with his hands, forming their size and shape from the air. They were yellow, and smallish, and had lots of petals. Thank you, she said. They were beautiful.
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Throwing herself into learning helped Miri ignore the painful chill of solitude around her.
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As a general rule, writing is very inconvenient.
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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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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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Truth is when your mind and your gut agree.
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She was born Anidori-Kiladra Talianna Isilee, Crown Princess of Kildenree, and she did not open her eyes for three days.
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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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Personally, I believe “Young Adult” to be an arbitrary title that means the book Can be enjoyed by anyone/Has a main character who’s not quite an adult/Isn’t really boring.
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Here's the thing about home: you can create it most anywhere, as long as you gather your people around you.
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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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Its important to know stories. I felt the earth shift to make a place for you when you were born, and I came to tell you stories while you are young. And like me, you were born with a word on your tongue.
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Clearly she was expected to say something, but panic at having to speak stole the thoughts from her head.
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Smell is the voice of the soul.
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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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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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He smiled in a way that made me want to kiss him right on the spot. Or the lips. Whichever was closer.
Shannon Hale