You mess with one Quinn, you mess with them all.

I'd suggest putting your head between your knees, but I think that's physically impossible for you at the moment.

Not enough." Margo rose and tucked the towel in place. " Come on, let's go stuff her in a locker. For old time's sake.

I think writer is a word without gender, and a good writer observes, absorbs, hopefully empathizes then translates that into character and story. You don’t have to do or be or have experienced, traveled to, but you have to imagine all of that, very well–and believe it completely during the bubble of the work.

My apartment's only about a block away." "Isn't that handy." "Fate," he countered as he took a seat on the sofa and made himself at home. "Fantasic, isn't it?" "One day very soon, I'm going to tell you what you can do with that fate of yours.

What do you know about life? " Bitterness ached in her throat. " You were born with everything. You never had to struggle for a single thing you wanted, never had to worry if you'd be accepted or loved or wanted back." He stared at her, grateful for the moment that she couldn't see that he'd spent nearly half of his life worrying that she, the single thing he wanted, would accept him, love him, and want him back.

If you’re looking for the full deal, the till-death deal, then look at me. No one’s ever going to love you, stick by you, understand how you work the way I do. (Malcolm Kavanaugh)