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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.
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
Lasts
Last
Night
Remember
Squeaky
Book
Stayed
Time
Tragedy
Couldn
Hours
More quotes by Shannon Hale
As a general rule, writing is very inconvenient.
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You've been quiet lately...but it's not so much the quiet as something inside the quiet.
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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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My ma says a rock lasts forever, but people don’t, and that’s what makes them more precious.
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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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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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She put a wedge beside my heart And then she brought the mallet down She sang no song to guide her work I lost my heart without a sound
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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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I was sorry to lose it, and if you make me another one, I promise not to get taken captive by bandits and have to use it to save my life.
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I'm going to find whoever is responsible for me sleeping out side with outside without pillows and kick them in the shins!-Enna
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Years ago, before this estate was generously and unwillingly turned over to the crown, the lord here was a genuine dimwit. He had a minister stashed behind his throne to whisper clever things to say.
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You are my butterfly and refuse to set you free.
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... and with my last thought I felt some real sympathy for those poor chickens.
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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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Really, becoming a writer sounds more like a mental illness than a professional choice.
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Smell is the voice of the soul.
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Goodness knows she is too fierce for you Goodness knows she has eyes for a lord Goodness knows she yet will prove untrue Her cheek's blush is as false as her word
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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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No more crying. It's all wetness and no comfort at all.
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. . . as long as there are movement and harmony, there are words.
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