Quotes About Imagination

There are many little ways to enlarge your child's world. Love of (good) books is the best of all.

Everything from Colette to Kerouac.

If I can manage to write up to about a thousand words early in the morning, no matter what else I'm doing that day, I feel at least I've got some work done. Often I find my ideas are clearer then. It's as if I've got all the imagination going through all my dreams as if it's still there in my head. I think that's a good writing tip to pass on. Write when you wake up.

Nothing in the world is like this- a bright white page with pale blue lines. The smell of a newly sharpened pencil the soft hush of it moving finally one day into letters.

It's easier to make up stories than it is to write them down. When I speak, the words come pouring out of me. The story wakes up and walks all over the room. Sits in a chair, crosses one leg over the other, says, Let me introduce myself. Then just starts going on and on.

we looked, we saw the people trying to dream themselves out. As though there was someplace other than this place. As though there was another Brooklyn.

Creating a novel means moving into the past, the hoped for, the imagined. It is an emotional journey, fraught at times with characters who don't always do or say what a writer wishes.

Kids are something. All they can see is the beauty in a moment.

But I don't want to read faster or older or any way else that might make the story disappear too quickly from where it's settling inside my brain, slowly becoming a part of me. A story I will remember long after I've read it for the second, third, tenth, hundredth time.

I watched my brother watch the world, his sharp, too-serious brow furrowing down in both angst and wonder. Everywhere we looked, we saw the people trying to dream themselves out. As though there was someplace other than this place. As though there was another Brooklyn.

I just shrug, not knowing what to say. How can I explain to anyone that stories are like air to me, I breathe them in and let them out over and over again.

Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow. —Langston Hughes

Imagine, my brother signed. Imagine if somebody built a bridge right outside our window and we could just walk across the highway and be on the other side.

first book There are seven of them, haikus mostly but rhyming ones, too. Not enough for a real book until I cut each page into a small square staple the squares together, write one poem on each page. Butterflies by Jacqueline Woodson on the front. The butterfly book complete now.

When you have so much real drama in your life, it's hard to think about fiction.

When I used to dream about that somebody they never had a face. It was more like a feeling.

How amazing these words are that slowly come to me. How wonderfully on and on they go. Will the words end, I ask whenever I remember to. Nope, my sister says, all of five years old now, and promising me infinity.

Probably still believed that if you wished hard enough you could make the impossible happen.

He had never imagined a love as deep and endless as this.

When we meet characters in books, fall in love with them, cheer for them, we become more empathetic. More hopeful. More thoughtful about the bigger world.

I think I look like a leopard," she remarked, pulling back to inspect her spotted arms and legs. Then that mischievous smile blossomed over her gorgeous lips. "Want to play connect the dots?

don't want to walk around with my imagination to depend on. I have a very evil imagination. It's one of my wicked womanly powers. Much worse than magic." "Is that right?" he asked with a laugh as he turned and crossed over to her. "Oh yes. Lots of exercise involved. I can jump to conclusions in a single bound. I'm more powerful than a murder motive. I'm faster than the town gossip. I am deadly and I must be stopped.

I do a great deal of research. I don't want anyone to say, 'That could not have happened.' It may be fiction, but it has to be true.

Man was made of a little mud and water. Could not a woman be made of dew, earthen mists and beams of light, condensed remnants of a rainbow?