We’re all made of stories. When they finally put us underground, the stories are what will go on. Not forever, perhaps, but for a time. It’s a kind of immortality, I suppose, bounded by limits, it’s true, but then so’s everything.
Every time you do a good deed you shine the light a little farther into the dark. And the thing is, when you’re gone that light is going to keep shining on, pushing the shadows back.
A name can’t begin to encompass the sum of all her parts. But that’s the magic of names, isn’t it? That the complex, contradictory individuals we are can be called up complete and whole in another mind through the simple sorcery of a name.
T.H. moved through the forest like the melody of a well-known song, in perfect harmony with his surroundings.
Everybody’s got a true home—maybe not where they’re living, butwhere their heart lives.
Don’t forget – no one else sees the world the way you do, so no one else can tell the stories that you have to tell.
The thing to remember when you’re writing is, it’s not whether or not what you put on paper is true. It’s whether it wakes a truth in your reader.
Everything is the way it is because we’ve all agreed that’s the way it is.
There’s no such thing as fiction”, Annie told him once. “If you can imagine something, then it’s happened.
That’s the thing about magic; you’ve got to know it’s still here, all around us, or it just stays invisible for you.
Inside us lies every possibility that is available to a sentient being. Every darkness, every light. It is the choices we make that decide who or what we will be.
It’s all a matter of paying attention, being awake in the present moment, and not expecting a huge payoff. The magic in this world seems to work in whispers and small kindnesses.
Gina always believed there was magic in the world. “But it doesn’t work in the way it does in fairy tales,” she told me. “It doesn’t save us. We have to save ourselves.
Magic lies in between things, between the day and the night, between yellow and blue, between any two things.
All forests are one… They are all echoes of the first forest that gave birth to Mystery when the world began.
Everybody’s got the potential for great good and great wrong in them, but it’s thechoices we make that define who we really are.
Once upon a time there was what there was, and if nothing had happened there would be nothing to tell.
We end up stumbling our way through the forest, never seeing all the unexpected and wonderful possibilities and potentials because we’re looking for the idea of a tree, instead of appreciating the actual trees in front of us.
I hate the thought of her being forced into a box that doesn’t fit her. Of having her wings cut off, her sight blinded, her hearing muted, her voice stilled.
There’s more to life than just surviving . . . but . . . sometimes just surviving is all you get
I’m not…’ Angharad began, but then she thought. Not what? Not a bad person? Perhaps. But had she never known anger? Never held unkind thoughts? The stranger’s observation was valid. No one was innocent of darkness.
Life is like art. You have to work hard to keep it simple and still have meaning.
I want to touch the heart of the world and make it smile.