3 pm EST. St. Mark’s Eve. Things Are Happening


It is real and confirmed and definitely happening that I will be revealing Something having to do with the Raven Cycle (it is what you think it is) on St. Mark’s Eve at 3 P.M. EST.

That’s Thursday, by the way, in case you didn’t commit book one to memory.


The planet we live on, with all its natural spectacularity, is probably the most magnificent thing we can ever experience. We shouldn’t take it for granted. We shouldn’t think of environment problems as petty or that nothing can be done to solve them. The nature was here before us. We depend on it. It makes this planetary home what it is.

Learn how to be nature friendly. We can make this place better if we are willing to. I am glad that Earth Day reminds this internationally and annually. (GIFs: headlikeanorange, gifdrome, sci-universe)

I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.
Emily Dickinson (via observando)


Architectural Watercolors by Maja Wronska

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Will we ever see more of the Scorpio Races realm? If no, will we see more equine influences in the future?


I’m normally quite certain when I’m done with a book. I can feel it in my heartparts. A story just won’t release me until I’ve finished what I meant to finish.

Usually what this means is the character arcs — I need the characters to end up where I want them and then, ta da, I can return to my regularly programmed life. I no longer daydream and night dream about the novel every day and every minute. 

But I never got that feeling with the Scorpio Races, and for a long time, I wasn’t sure why. Puck and Sean both ended up where I wanted them. So what was the problem?

Then I realized that it was because the island, Thisby, had become a character to me, and that is a character I can never really put to rest. Do I want to return to it? Desperately. Will I? When a story calls me back to it.

Thisby is kind of a part of me now. I couldn’t forget it even if I wanted to.

A writer is a world trapped in a person.
Victor Hugo (via uh-huh-shes-alive)





don’t you hate it when you’re reading a chapter and then it’s coming to its climax and omg what’s gonna happen, then woops, your eyes dart to the last line and you spoil yourself and hate yourself…


about the only thing that makes me happy

Puck and Thisby

Puck and Thisby


Also, persnickety