Story ideas are the dreams of our waking minds

Only humans could write such pain and love, could make her swoon one minute and cry the next over something that had never really happened to people who’d never really existed.

Books are the vice of saints

A trip to the library is like coming home and going on an adventure at the same time.

The hardest thing to write is a sentence that says as much as a page.

Writing a book is like telling a stranger your secrets.

I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. Montgomery had gotten the flowers. Sometime yesterday he’d picked wild flowers like he used to when we’d visit cousins in the country.

For a moment, he rested his hand on the pitchfork, breath ragged. Strands of hair escaped the ponytail and fell over his eyes, making him look wild, untamed. He’d changed so much from that quiet boy. He’d had to, growing up with monsters as playmates.

The heel of Montgomery’s boot tapped nervously against the floor, as if he knew he was a bad liar. “I can’t say how he’ll take the news at first. He can be unpredictable, but in the end he’ll be glad you came.” He leaned forward, blue eyes simmering. His boot tapped faster. “I’m glad you came.