Conor Clancy

“The rain battered the cottage. Valkyrie risked a look up at Skulduggery.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“It’s a box,” he whispered back.
“What kind of box?”
“A wooden one.”
She gave him a look.”
― Derek Landy, Death Bringer

“Look, this is all very, very weird. Why are you focusing on rumours and urban legends? You haven’t even asked me any
normal questions.”
“Normal questions? Like what?”
“Like, I don’t know, like if Lynch had any enemies.”
“Did Lynch have any enemies?”
“Well, not that I know of, no.”
“Then there really was no point in me asking that, was there? Unless you wanted to distract me. You didn’t want to distract me, did you, Kenny?”
“No, that’s not—”
“Are you playing a game with me, Kenny?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
Inspector Me leaned forward. “Did you kill him?”
“No!”
“It’d be OK if you did.”
Kenny recoiled, horrified. “How would that be OK?”
“Well,” Me said, “maybe not”
― Derek Landy, Death Bringer

“Substitute 'damn' every time you're inclined to write 'very;' your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.”
― Mark Twain

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar