#tories

I wish I’d paid better attention. I didn’t yet think of time as finite. I didn’t fully appreciate the stories she told me until I became adult, and by then I had to make do with snippets pasted together, a film projected on the back of my mind. ↗

— Jessica Maria Tuccelli

#oral-tradition #stories #time #death

The short story, I should point out, is perforce a labor of love in today's literary world; there's precious little economic incentive to write one... ↗

— Lawrence Block

#short-stories #short-story #writers #writing #love

Seth: "I write of love in my novels, write of it well, if my critics and fans are to be believed, but in all of my years at that typewriter, I never found the combination of words that would convey how I felt about you. You were my everything. ↗

— Lissa Bryan

#haunted #hostwriter #paranormal-romance #romance-novels #love

He loved her in a subtle kind of way. It wasn’t the kind of love you see in movies, with swelling music and giant gestures and running through the streets to catch a departing train. It wasn’t the kind of love that Byron or Shakespeare wrote about, with flowery language and hyperbole and iambic pentameter. It was still and deep, like water that you might mistake for shallow if you just watched the surface. It was entirely his, not dependent on her own feelings for him, and it would still be there whether she, or him, or everyone else on the world disappeared. It was a subtle kind of love, but it was true. ↗

— Jake Christie

#love

The sea was my first home...Now that I had nowhere else to go, this was the last place I felt safe. ↗

— Jennifer Silverwood

#mythology-fiction #paranormal-romance #romance-love #sea-stories #love

Stories come alive in the telling. Without a human voice to read them aloud, or a pair of wide eyes following them by flashlight beneath a blanket, they had no existence in our world. They were like seeds in the beak of a bird, waiting to fall to earth. Or the notes of a song laid out on a sheet, yearning for an instrument to bring their muasic into being. They lay dormant, hoping for the chance to emerge. Once someone started to read them, they could begin to change. They could take root in the imagination and transform the reader. Stories wanted to be read. They needed it. It was the reason they forced themselves from their world into ours. They wanted us to give them life. ↗

— John Connolly

#change

Day 72 I remember oranges and you don’t mind me leaving the queue momentarily to find some. When you say, Of course, you reach for my arm in sympathy and recognition. This may be the thing that breaks me today, that stops me in my tracks before driving me forward, turning a corner, making something work, letting everything happen. When I return, you’re touching my yoghurts, reading the ingredients, as though you are making them yours, protecting them in my absence and amusing yourself with the cherry-ness of them. On days like this, I want to take my strangers home with me. ↗

— Gemma Seltzer

#london #oranges #speaking #stories #strangers

In a sense who you are has always been a story that you told to yourself. Now your self is a story that you tell to others. ↗

— Geoff Ryman

#science-fiction #stories #the-self #writing #science

A good story should make you laugh, and a moment later break your heart. ↗

— Chuck Palahniuk

#stories #laugh

But no one may know the shape of the tale in which they move. And, perhaps, we do not truly know which sort of beast it is, either. Stories have a way of changing faces. They are unruly things, undisciplined, given to delinquency and the throwing of erasers. This is why we must close them up into thick, solid books, so they cannot get out and cause trouble. ↗

— Catherynne M. Valente

#stories #trouble #change