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It was the sibling thing, I suppose. I was fascinated by the intricate tangle of love and duty and resentment that tied them together. The glances they exchanged; the complicated balance of power established over decades; the games I would never play with rules I would never fully understand. And perhaps that was key: they were such a natural group that they made me feel remarkably singular by comparison. To watch them together was to know strongly, painfully, all that I'd been missing.
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... people who'd led dull and blameless lives did not give thanks for second chances.
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But everyone's an expert with the virtue of hindsight . . . .
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There's a market for mysteries for adults. That feeling of opening a book and delving inside and not coming out until you've closed the book.
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Some say I'm an overnight success. Well, that was a very long night that lasted about 10 years. But while I do, of course, now feel the pressure having had books that have been very successful, I just know I have to concentrate on writing for myself. I can't worry about genres or markets or what might be commercial or not. That never works.
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She says there are stories everywhere and that people who wait for the right one to come along before setting pen to paper end up with very empty pages.
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Only people unhappy in the present seek to know the future.
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The prospect of an early death sits differently upon each person. In some it gifts maturity far outweighing their age and experience: calm acceptance blossoms into a beautiful nature and soft countenance. In others, however, it leads to the formation of a tiny ice flint in their heart. Ice that, though at times concealed, never properly melts. Rose, though she would have liked to be one of the former, knew herself deep down to be one of the latter.
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In retrospect, it seems like everything in my life led to me becoming a writer. I just didn't realise it at the time.
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I'd pretty much given up hope of being published, so I just wrote the book I wanted to read.
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People might think writing is a hard business, but it's nowhere near acting.
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I write what I'd like to read and just hope that, along the way, others might like to read them, too.
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I simply love writing good stories, that's my passion.
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I love the structural part of the writing process.
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I want to be independent. To meet interesting people. ... I just mean new people with clever things to say. Things I've never heard before. I want to be free. Open to whatever adventure comes along and sweeps me off my feet.
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Nell was not one for friends and had never hidden her distaste for most other humans, their neurotic compulsion for the acquisition of allies.
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The happiest folk are those that are busy, for their minds are starved of time to seek out woe.
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Doors lead to things and I've never met one I haven't wanted to open.
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I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.
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Those who live in memories are never really dead.
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The stretch of years leaves none unmarked: the blissful sense of youthful invincibility peels away and responsibility brings its weight to bear.
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There’s something about hospital walls; though only made of bricks and plaster, when you’re inside them the noise, the reality of the teeming city beyond, disappears; it’s just outside the door, but it might as well be a magical land far, far away.
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But history is a faithless teller whose cruel recourse to hindsight makes fools of its actors.
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After all, it's the librarian's sworn purpose to bring books together with their one true reader.