I think the only way to get through this life is laughing hard and constantly, mostly at myself.
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.
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.
Being a writer is a good, good thing.
But, how do you know if an ending is truly good for the characters unless you've traveled with them through every page?
I'm going to find whoever is responsible for me sleeping out side with outside without pillows and kick them in the shins!-Enna
I wonder if everyone who faces death hurts like this. It's as though for the first time I realize how much just being alive makes my body ache. But I don't want that ache to stop.
You are my butterfly and refuse to set you free.
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.
When you get tired of worrying and mourning your horse and trying not to be afraid, tell me and I'll do it for you a while so you can shut your eyes and sleep peaceful.
Careful with the accusations of insanity, oh my lady whose home is a tower with windows of brick, all for the sake of some skinny-ankled, laugh-prone boy of a khan.
If we're mad, we're mad in large numbers, at least larger than yours.
There you go.. Let it all slide out. Unhappiness can't stick in a person's soul when it's slick with tears.
Sometimes my fancy gets to floating inside me, threatening to carry me away like a leaf on a wind. Better to be a stone.
Yes, we'll yell, 'Help, help us, goose girl, and bring the terrifying legion of warrior geese'.