“A cry drifted along Walnut Street, more mournful than any tears. It rode a puff of breeze into the bedroom where Mark lay, holding himself awake. Bark! Bark! Bark! A-wooooo-ooo-ooo! Bark! Bark! Awooo! Mark popped up like a jack-in-the-box. The… — Marion Dane Bauer Copy Share Image
I was an adult before I began to learn that there is a difference between a conversation and an argument. — Marion Dane Bauer Copy Share
You don't choose your themes; they choose you. The meaning of your stories will rise out of your deepest longings, often out of longings… — Marion Dane Bauer Copy Share
“The power of fiction is that it gives us, as readers, the opportunity to move inside another human being, to look out through that… — Marion Dane Bauer Copy Share
Human beings are storytelling animals. That's what separates us from other creatures, not just having thumbs or using tools. — Marion Dane Bauer Copy Share
Writing the opening lines of a story is a bit like starting to ski at the steepest part of a hill. You must have… — Marion Dane Bauer Copy Share
Never think of revising as fixing something that is wrong. That starts you off in a negative frame of mind. Rather think of it… — Marion Dane Bauer Copy Share
I used to tiptoe up to my bedroom door and leap into my room in an attempt to surprise my dolls in the midst… — Marion Dane Bauer Copy Share
“But never in his saddest dreams had he thought he'd spend his last years dusting this enormous old house for no one at all.” — Marion Dane Bauer Copy Share
“You should know better than to run from a storm, too. We wolves are careful. Always we are careful. But we are not afraid.… — Marion Dane Bauer Copy Share
“So much longing. So many lives filled with longing. It's what stories― all our stories― are made of. And what is longing made of… — Marion Dane Bauer Copy Share
It is curious how believable I can be when I criticize myself, how unconvincing when I give myself praise. — Marion Dane Bauer Copy Share
“A cry drifted along Walnut Street, more mournful than any tears. It rode a puff of breeze into the bedroom where Mark lay, holding… — Marion Dane Bauer Copy Share
