Quotes About Storytelling

And so it seemed to her that he had always been a part of the landscape of her life, this great white bear. She brought him rosehips to sweeten his days, tried to explain how, once they had been flowers, but now were seeds. He had never seen a rose. He told her stories, coloured with every shade of white, and spoke of a sky that danced with lights. She felt that he understood how the world began, how it might end. And, even before they met, he walked in her dreams.

And it seemed to him that she has always been a part of the landscape of his dreams, though for many years he could not understand her shape, until the day they met. So he told her the stories of colours and spoke with the gentle wings of moths, and walked through the world with her by his side. He loved this red colour of rosehips, like blood, but sweeter. She loved the light of wild in his eyes, the scent of frost in his fur and the movement of wings.

had told Rocky an odd version of this story; little truths had appeared, but the girl had deliberately left out the part that showed the true train wreck. She had deliberately orchestrated the tale for a purpose.

She told him about tossing Bob's ashes in the deep fryer at the local restaurant. She stopped and asked him if he had ever in all his years as a minister ever heard of anyone doing that

Look how beautifully black we are. And as we dance, I am not Melody who is sixteen, I am not my parents' once illegitimate daughter—I am a narrative, someone's almost forgotten story. Remembered.

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.

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.

At the day's end, a writer lives alone with her story, wrestling with characters and settings, and the way light filters into and out of a scene. The deeper messages often escape her.Sometimes I take for granted the journey through the telling. At other times I curse the muse's power. But through it all, I live each day in deep gratitude.

My grandmother tells us all this as we sit at her feet, each story like a photograph we can look right into, see our mother there marchers and dogs and kittens all blending

One day I'd have full breasts, hips, and large hands. One day, my body would tell the world stories beneath the fabric of my clothes.

Maybe this was the moment when I knew I was part of a long line of almost erased stories. A child of denial. Of magical thinking.

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.

there is no greater way I can think of to honor those people who've died than to tell their story ...

All stories are true. But some of them never happened.

Before you're ready to tell that story well, you might have to study and learn the equivalent of an entire specialized college education on the society in which your story takes place, because all sorts of things were happening that you need to understand before you can even begin to tell a story in that milieu.

When the characters are really alive before their author, the latter does nothing but follow them in their action, in their words, in the situations which they suggest to him.

Pobre de aquel, que no hizo de su infancia Una leyenda.

It was a wonderful experience to work with Sylvia. She pushed me to be more powerful with my acting, and she told me scores of the most incredible stories I've ever heard. She is amazing.

Perhaps the corollary would be just as good an opening for a tale; not "long ago, when animals could speak," but "Long ago, when people could listen.

A música tinha um enredo e desfiava esse enredo como uma pessoa amiga que entrava para uma visita, uma pessoa muito amiga mas muito estranha, que ora chorava, ora ria, repetindo de vez em quando o começo da historinha: "Sabe, Virgínia, eu vou contar, era uma vez...

There are few things more pleasurable than a cracking version of Hansel and Gretel and a good scab.

I don't just want to write a story. I want to pull the reader into my ink so they feel the cold of a snowy forest or the pain of a tortured soul. I want them to laugh and cry, to smile and sigh, and when they reach the end of the book and find themselves wishing it hadn't ended...then I've done my job.

There are so many great stories that happen in real life there's really no need to think them up at all. I always tell children I have got idea antennae flapping around waiting to grab ideas as they fly past.

I think Andrew Stanton is such an amazing, creative mind.