Women Authors From The United States

"So, there was a girl. What I’ve guessed, and what the history books imply, is that she was unlucky enough to have been sired by a cruel man. He beat both wife and daughter and abused them in other ways. Bright Itempas is called, among other things, the god of justice. Perhaps that was why He responded when she came into His temple, her heart full of unchildlike rage. “I want him to die,” she said (or so I imagine). “Please Great Lord, make him die.” You know the truth now about Itempas. He is a god of warmth and light, which we think of as pleasant, gentle things. I once thought of Him that way, too. But warmth uncooled burns; light undimmed can hurt even my blind eyes. I should have realized. We should all have realized. He was never what we wanted Him to be. So when the girl begged the Bright Lord to murder her father, He said, “Kill him yourself.” And He gifted her with a knife perfectly suited to her small, weak child’s hands. She took the knife home and used it that very night. The next day, she came back to the Bright Lord, her hands and soul stained red, happy for the first time in her short life. “I will love you forever,” she declared. And He, for a rare once, found Himself impressed by mortal will. Or so I imagine. The child was mad, of course. Later events proved this. But it makes sense to me that this madness, not mere religious devotion, would appeal most to the Bright Lord. Her love was unconditional, her purpose undiluted by such paltry considerations as conscience or doubt. It seems like Him, I think, to value that kind of purity of purpose—even though, like warmth and light, too much love is never a good thing."

"“You can’t lose faith you never had to begin with.” “Ah. So you never believed in the Bright at all?” “Of course I believed. Even now I believe, in principle. But when I was sixteen, I saw the hypocrisy in all the things the priests had taught me. It’s all very well to say the world values reason and compassion and justice, but if nothing in reality reflects those words, they’re meaningless.”"

"I understand that mutual dissatisfaction is a factor in their collaboration. I imagine it isn’t a far step from mutual goals to mutual respect, and from there to love."

"But though I repeated my plea, and waited on my knees for nearly an hour, there was no answer."

"What happened when people who’d once possessed absolute power suddenly lost it?"

"I knew as well as anyone that the priests taught what they wanted us to know, not necessarily what was true. And sometimes even when they told the truth, they got it wrong."

"“They follow the creed of the Bright: that which disturbs the order of society must be eliminated, regardless of whether it caused the disturbance.” She rolled her eyes. “You’d think they’d get tired of parroting Itempas and start thinking for themselves after two thousand years.”"

"There’s not such thing as magic that does no harm."

"Very quickly I fell in with others like me—newcomers, dreamers, young people drawn to the city in spite of its dangers because sometimes, for some of us, tedium and familiarity feel worse than risking your life."

"I was beginning to understand, a little. “Is that why you’re a usurer?” Madding chuckled. “I prefer the term investor. And my rates are perfectly fair, thank you.” “Drug dealer, then.” “I prefer the term independent apothecary—”"

"When people questioned this, the priests simply said, The world has changed. We must change with it. You can imagine how well that went over."

"Love betrayed has an entirely different sound from hatred outright."

"It’s all right to need help. All of us have things we can’t do alone."

"“I will not beg your forgiveness,” she said. Only her voice betrayed her fear; it was not its usual strong, clear tone. “I did what I felt was right.” “Of course you did,” I said. “It was the wise thing to do.”"

"“I'm tired of being what everyone else has made me,” I said. “I want to be myself.” “Don’t be a child.” I looked up, startled and angry, though of course there was nothing to see. “What?” “You are what your creators and experiences have made you, like every other being in this universe. Accept that and be done; I’m tired of your whining.”"

"There is no logic to grief."

"But love like that doesn’t just disappear, does it? No matter how powerful the hate, there’s always a little love left, underneath. Yes. Horrible, isn’t it?"

"Immortality gets very, very boring. You'd be surprised at how interesting the small mundanities of life can seem after a few millennia."

"It is important to appreciate beauty, even when it is evil."

"It is blasphemy to separate oneself from the earth and look down on it like a god. It is more than blasphemy, it is dangerous. We can never be gods, after all—but we can become something less than human with frightening ease."

"But perhaps that was just the way of power: no such thing as too much."

"There is no greater warrior than a mother protecting her child."

"My job is to help the world..That is what an artist's job is—to the degree that we can. That is nothing more than holding up a mirror and saying, 'You're beautiful, baby.' Or holding up a mirror and saying, 'Look at the shit that you're doing to yourself. Maybe you should stop.' It is an artist's job to speak truth to power."

"The pasts that I draw upon tend to be mythic pasts. I’m not super interested in writing historical fantasy. I have done that a few times in the case of subject areas that I felt like should have been explored more, like the Haitian Revolution, for example. But for the most part, I’m more interested in exploring the gods that we could have had. Or these are the creation myths that we could have explored. I’m not super interested in existing mythology, though existing mythology does inform just about everything that I’m coming up with. But that’s more along the lines of, This is how mythology should be structured, so you need to look at existing mythology to understand that. If I’m trying to come up with a secondary world, the goal is to use not too much of the existing world…"

"…You’re still putting a pretty hefty mental commitment into making a short story. Even though it’s relatively brief, you still have to come up with a world that’s coherent. I find short stories almost as difficult to write as novels, it’s just less time-consuming. Short stories are hard for me. That’s why the collection is something like fifteen years worth of short stories. They asked me to write several new ones for the collection and I was just like, Not likely to happen. In fact, I can really only write them when I’m between novels because they take away from whatever energy I’m trying to pour into a novel."

"This is the year in which I get to smile at all of those naysayers – every single mediocre insecure wannabe who fixes their mouth to suggest that I do not belong on this stage, that people like me cannot possibly have earned such an honour, that when they win it it’s meritocracy but when we win it it’s ‘identity politics’ –… I get to smile at those people, and lift a massive, shining, rocket-shaped middle finger in their direction."

"We were all exposed to nothing but white dude fiction, occasionally young white women fiction, and if that’s how you’ve grown up, then that is what is normal."

"(Book that...everyone should read:) One of the many books by queer and POC authors that are under challenge by conservatives, via your local library. If they’re no longer available at your library because the conservatives got there first, join your local Library Board and fight to reinstate them. Reading–and the freedom to speak truth to power–is part of a framework of equity and justice that is under attack in a way not seen for a generation. Fight for all books. Or else."

"I will definitely attempt to sail around the world again. In fact, I can’t wait for the chance to try again."

"I am twelve thousand miles wiser, twelve thousand miles more resilient, and I have twelve thousand miles more faith in God."

"I will never forget the feeling of walking into my home, a place that while drifting helpless in the middle of the Indian Ocean I wondered if I would ever see again."

"Just as I was about to grab the rope ladder, a huge swell lifted the dinghy nearly to La Reunion’s deck level, and at least a dozen smiling French fishermen pulled me aboard."

"Unable to make radio contact with this second plane I felt my chances were fading fast. Dropping the radio mic, I sprinted up to the deck . . . and saw a huge ship bearing down on me!"

"Just like that, a single phone call erased one possible, horrendous future—and replaced it with the bright certainty that God had answered the prayers of thousands and that their beloved Abby was coming home."

"The things that happen on the sea take you beyond yourself, beyond human capability."

"When I saw the plane, I was absolutely astonished! Two emotions crashed over me: surging joy and crazy fear."

"Against reason, I thought that the next swell would be it: another rogue wave would roll me again . . .At that moment, a noise from above caught my attention. And I looked up just in time to see a gigantic white airplane fly by."

"The only thing I knew to do was to pray. “Lord, if I’m going to be rescued,” I said out loud, “please let me know.”"

"Marianne tried to stay hopeful. But slowly her imagination bulldozed her optimism aside and pushed her mind into a dark place. There, she saw Abby tethered to the boat in her bright red foul-weather gear, being dragged along dead in the sea."

"It was like a horrible movie clip, only worse, because I could feel it—not just see it."

"In that moment it dawned on me that everything has to line up perfectly for something to turn out this awful."

"The seriousness of my situation started to sink in, and again I fought panic. I pushed it down, but it was harder this time, like my insides were an open can of shaken soda and I was trying to keep it from bubbling up out of the top."

"I knew that even if I was able to call for help, I was in a place so remote that it wasn’t likely there would be anyone who could help me. And even if there were, it could take weeks."

"Fifty feet of mast lay in the heaving water, downed lines and shrouds holding it there."

"Even without looking I knew: there was no way I still had a mast. And without a mast, the trip was over."

"It was dark. Something had fallen on top of the cabin light, turning the cabin into a black tunnel. I couldn’t hear anything at all. The roll didn’t stop. It continued to port, and for just a few seconds I was sitting on the ceiling in the dark."

"The swells were amazing! As big as three-story apartment buildings!"

"But the more times she missed, the faster she’d be traveling when she finally slammed into the mast. And it wasn’t if she hit the mast; it was when. At that point, Abby would be either severely injured or dead."

"The terrifying physics of going up-mast in heavy seas are inescapable."

"Going up the mast is one of the most dangerous things you can do as a solo sailor."