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I was a fine arts major in college, and a painter for many years. And I found that, like writing, art is very similar.
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I could remember the details as if it had happened yesterday, even though it was hard to believe some of it had happened at all. Funerals were tricky like that. And life, I guess. The important parts you blocked out altogether, but the random, slanted moments haunted you, replaying over and over in your mind.
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As much as I love to dive into the action early, I think the hero's journey is important - the idea that the reader needs to experience the protagonist's everyday life before you turn that world upside down.
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I really was alone, and the only thing worse than being alone was having everyone else see how lonely you were
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Your bird drinks whiskey and eats tobacco?" The old man frowned."Just be lad he doesn't like eatin' scrawny boys that don't know their way 'round the Otherworld.
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At the beginning of a new project, often before I do any actual writing, I collect photos, quotes, song lyrics, and even objects that relate to the characters or the world I'm creating.
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I am a friend. I have in my possession two thousand assorted buttons, eight hundred keys, and only one friend. Perhaps it is not something you can understand. I have not often been one before. I will be now.
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I sat up in bed. My T-shirt was soaking wet. My pillow was wet. My hair was wet. And my room was sticky and humid.
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Knowing you don't have much time left changes things. You get kind of philosophical. And you figure things out-more like, they figure themselves out-and everything gets real clear.
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I walked over and picked up one of the jugs. "What's this? Some kind of Caster disinfectant?" Lena took it out of my hand and lined it up with the others. "Yeah, it's called bleach.
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Sunday night, I reread The Catcher in the Rye until I felt tired enough to fall asleep. Only I never got tired enough. And I couldn't read, because reading didn't feel the same.
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It wasn't that she was different from all the other girls at Jackson. That was obvious. It was that she made me realize how much I was just like the rest of them, even if I wanted to pretend I wasn't.
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I get it," said Link. "Even if it wrecks everything, even if you know you're gonna get busted, sometimes you gotta do it anyway." "Something like that.
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Just as I lay back, she sat up. I sat up, and she flopped back down. Awkward. That was my every move when it came to her. Now we were both lying down, staring up at the blue sky.
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The beginning of a book is always the hardest part for me. I'm a Chapter 3 kind of writer, which means I naturally start at Chapter 3.
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The good and the bad, the sugar and the salt, the kicks and the kisses—what’s come before and what will come after, you and me—
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I care. They bother me. And that's why I'm stupid. That makes me exponentially more stupid than stupid. I'm stupid to the power of stupid.
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Because life goes on, L. The birds do their thing, and the bees do theirs. Seeds get scattered, and everything grows back.
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I never loved you any more than I do, right this second. And I'll never love you any less than I do, right this second.
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Lying on the ceiling. Refusing to go to school. Not opening up to me. Climbing water towers. "No, she's all right."
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There was no one color that could paint Lena Duchannes. She was a red sweater and a blue sky, a gray wind and a silver sparrow, a black curl escaping from behind her ear.
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She leaned into my shoulder. "Maybe you don't have to be a Caster to have power." I pushed her hair behind her ear. "Maybe you just have to fall for one.
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The mortal world is in a state of Beautiful Chaos and destruction, which will ultimately lead to an exquisite end.
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I'd ridden to school with Link every day since kindergarten, when we became best friends after he gave me half his Twinkie on the bus. I only found out later it had fallen on the floor.