Robin Wasserman Famous Quotes
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Just because you can't take something back, doesn't mean you don't want to. Just because you want to, doesn't mean you try.
You tell me, Dex, what kind of a bullshit god doesn't care what you did or who you hurt as long as you say you're sorry? Forgiveness
Cliche but accurate: Kick a football, then ask it whether it meant to fly. All action demands an equal and opposite reaction. You can't blame an object battered by inertial forces; you can't blame me, bouncing through the pinball machine of life.
Which is to say, I'd been lonely for so long, I'd forgotten that I was.
That feeling of disconnection, of grief for something I'd never had, of screaming into a void and knowing no one would hear me
I'd forgotten that was anything other than the basic condition of life.
Life is a physics problem. Bodies in motion.
I knew we were better together than we were alone, and better still than everyone else, and that was enough.
Hacking in its pure form stretched back centuries. It wasn't restricted to a single medium. It was more than a methodology. It was an ethos.
See them in their golden hour, a flood of girls high on the ecstasy of the final bell, tumbling onto the city bus, all gawky limbs and Wonderbra cleavage, chewed nails picking at eruptive zits, lips nibbling and eyes scrunching in a doomed attempt not to cry. Girls with plaid skirts tugged unfathomably high above the knee, girls seizing the motion of the bus to throw themselves bodily into their objects of affection.
Not that my arms are getting tired or anything, but ... how much longer is the hugging phase going to last?
Popularity gives you power only over people who care about being popular. Ostracism gives you power only over those who fear being ostracized.
Sascha looked torn. Should she cram my head full of newfound terror that the world would reject me, or let me wander into the big, scary out-there, like a naive lamb prancing to the slaughter?
Our story ends happily ever after. It has to. We escape Battle Creek, pile into the car, and burn a strip of rubber down the highway. Fly away west, to the promised land. Our rooms will be lit by lava lamps and Christmas lights. Our lives will glow. Consciousness will rise and minds will expand, and beautiful boys in flannel shirts will make snow angels on our floor and write love letters on our ceiling with black polish and red lipstick. We will be their muses, and they will strum their guitars beneath our window, calling to us with a siren song. Come down come away with me. We will lean out of our tower, our hair swinging like Rapunzel's, and laugh, because nothing will carry us away from each other.
Even now, I believe that to know how is useless if we do not know why. And there are too many who forbid us to ask.
I used to be an obsessive outliner - figuring that writing without an outline was like jumping off a cliff and building a parachute on the way down.
That was the strange thing about translation, speaking someone else's words in a voice that somehow was and wasn't your own. You could fool yourself into believing you understood the meaning behind the words, but-as my father had explained long before I was old enough to get it-words and meaning were inseparable. Language shapes thought; I speak, therefore I think, therefor I am.
That if I pretended hard enough nothing was waiting to claim me, nothing ever would.
She felt, at times, that what had seemed like an infinity of choice turned out to be a funnel, life narrowing itself one bad decision at a time, each mistake cutting the options by half, spiraling her ever downward until there was nowhere left to fall but into a small, dark hole that had no bottom. Choosing
A fundamentalist is someone who wants to substitute what he believes for what you believe," Max said. "And someone who thinks he knows the will of God better than anyone else.
Of course Stephen King doesn't believe in teen novels. I've started to suspect he doesn't even believe in teenagers.
Stevens, who knew that mouth could do more thana rgue? You're a true blue friend, a red-hot lady and all that other good yearbook shit. You've got a big heart and I've got an even bigger...you know. So we're both winners. KG
I did it all mechanically. Mechanically, as in without thought, as in through force of habit, as in instinctively, automatically, involuntarily. Mechanically, as in like-a-machine.
The doctor's voice was cold. "There's nothing to put back. There's no body to go back to. The body of Lia Kahn is dead. Be grateful you didn't die with it.
Loretta didn't have much time left for mothering, and once I was old enough to fry my own eggs, she started leaving me home with the cat. Then the cat ran away; she didn't notice. Poor
Rudeness was a sign of weakness. Grace stemmed from power, the power to accept anything and move on.
Like when everything flipped upside down and the scream of metal on metal exploded the silence and the world churned around me, ground over sky over ground over sky, and then, with a thunderous crack and a crunching of glass and steel, a twisted roof crushing me into a gutted floor, ground, I wasn't surprised.
There are some moments you'd rather sleep through, pass from point A to point B without awareness of the time passing or the events that carry you from present to future. And it's mostly those moments in which it's smarter-safer- to stay awake.
When I was a kid I used to wonder if, just maybe, the world existed only for me. If rooms ceased to exist when I stepped into the hallway and people disappeared once they left me, the rest of their lives imagined solely for my entertainment.
You could love something and still understand it had ruined your life.
It was almost a relief, no longer having to be extraordinary. To give up on existential questioning and simply abide.
They ask how the universe is arranged, philosophers, mathematicians, and they draw pretty pictures, impossibilities on the page. They save phenomena by telling one ugly lie after another, epicycles upon epicycles, and the fools care not. It is not enough, I tell you, to ask how the cosmos is designed. We must ask why.
I told myself I deserved some good luck, overlooking the fact that it would call for substantially more than luck to thrust me into one of those narratives where plain-Jane new girl catches the eye of inexplicably single Prince Charming, because somehow the new school has revealed her wild, irresistible beauty, of which she was never before aware.
I believed in happily ever after as much as anyone, because Jane Austen, Prince Charming, and Hugh Grant promised me it could happen.
But maybe that particular delusion was universal.
Now I existed solely thanks to the quantum paradox, my brain a collection of qubits in quantum superposition, encoding truths and memories, imagination and irrationality in opposing, contradictory states that existed and didn't exist, all at the same time.
The world was so much more forgiving of strength when it took on the appearance of weakness.
I'm not one of those authors who claims to hear voices in my head or 'let the characters speak through me,' whatever that might mean.
Full Disclosure: I hate David with the passion of a thousand fiery suns all going to supernova at the same time
You don't even realize you're living in a before until you wake up one day and find yourself in an after.
See, wrong guys think they're good. Evil guys don't think at all. They're just evil. And kind of lame. So whick are you?
According to Lacey I had the lyrics all wrong. I sang like it sounded to me, because those words sounded right: I loved you I'm not going back I killed you I'm not going back.
Don't go looking in dark places, because dark things live there.
Nobody likes me," he concluded at the tail end of a ten-minute pity fest.
"Can't imagine why," Quinn murmured. I turned my snort of laughter into a fake cough,
which was an embarrassingly feeble attempt at subterfuge when you consider the fact that
I didn't have any lungs.
Origin stories are irrelevant. Nothing matters less than how you were born. What matters is how you die, and how you live. We live for each other, so anything that got us to that point must have been right.
'The Waking Dark' is about what happens when something awakens a town's darkest impulses and unleashes them on the world.
As someone who writes and teaches YA fiction, I spend a lot of time trying to define its character and readership, and I don't think I'm alone - genres are all about boundary drawing, and the YA genre is, in a lot of ways, about carving out boundaries around adolescence, a space for teenagers to do teenage things.
The love you needed was the kind best avoided.
Instead of inventing imaginary friends, I invented whole imaginary worlds. They were elaborate scenarios about spies and adventurers and top secret missions. I crawled along my swing set, searching for escape routes from my maximum-security prison; I biked through the neighborhood, the wind in my hair and a fleet of evildoers on my heels.
People do crazy things when they're keeping girls locked up in their shed.
I envied Elizabeth- but I admired Groot. Because if you truly believed in the lightning bolts, why not do everything in your power to take them for yourself.
No matter how terrifying, they need to decide that the only rules that matter are the ones they write themselves.
If you can't remember something, did it really happen?
They would fade away-and I would be left alone to face the people at school,and the reporters,and Adriane,and all the places where Max had taken my hand or breathed in my ear or told me he loved me,and the emptiness that used to be Chris.
But things don't just fall apart. People break them.
Eli shouted my name, and then his arounds were around me, and I reached for Adriane who held fast to a blistering, burning creature that once had been Max and somehow still breathed and stood and howled. Though he was now nothing but flame, a golem of fire, that lived only because he'd forgotten how to die.
And you know what? If there is a God, and it's that same God who's so eager to have temples built in honor of his greatness, and wars fought over him, and people dropping to their knees telling him what a wonderful, magnificent being he is? If this all-powerful, all-knowing creature for some reason just can't get by without my worship? Then let him give me some proof. Or at least get over himself if I decide to go out and get some.
Teen fiction should be about teenagers - no matter how many arguments there are about what YA lit should be, this seems like the one thing we can all agree on.
I spent most of my teen years trying to figure out the rules of life, theories for why things happened, why people behaved as they did, and mostly I came to the conclusion that either there were no rules, or the rules sucked. Reading science fiction wasn't about imagining myself into some more exciting life filled with adventure, it was about finding a world where things worked the way I wanted them to.
I should probably start with the blood.
There had to be consequences. Lacey was always right about that. Maybe freaks stayed freaks and losers stayed losers, maybe sad and weak was forever, but villains only stayed villains until someone stopped them.
Chris loved you," I said, and the truth of it was almost a physical pain.
She wouldn't look at me. "No he didn't. And he would have figured it out eventually. So would you? Then where would I have been?"
"Not here.