it's about dreams and words, except when it's not, and sometimes it's about books and far off lands, except when it's about history, film, and pretty things.
the secret history by donna tartt
the child thief by gerard brom
the curious incident of the dog in the night-time by mark haddon
I’m writing a first draft and reminding myself that I’m simply shoveling sand into a box so that later I can build castles.
You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.
"we ourselves are made of star dust"
they find can understand the movements of the planets, interpret the darkest creases of the night sky. they find themselves aglow with starlight.
I myself have seen this woman draw the stars from the sky; she diverts the course of a fast-flowing river with her incantations; her voice makes the earth gape, it lures the spirits from the tombs, send the bones tumbling from the dying pyre. At her behest, the sad clouds scatter; at her behest, snow falls from a summer’s sky.