Nationalité : États-Unis
Né(e) à : Atlanta
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Né(e) à : Atlanta
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Rebecca Ross est une autrice de romans fantastiques pour adolescents et adultes.
Elle vit dans les contreforts des Appalaches au nord-est de la Géorgie avec son mari, un berger australien animé et une pile interminable de livres. Lorsqu'elle n'écrit pas, on la trouve en train de lire ou dans son jardin, où elle fait pousser des fleurs sauvages et des idées d'histoires. Rebecca Ross est fan de Jane Austen et ses écrits sont inspirés par Juliet Marillier et Melina Marchetta
Elle est notamment l'autrice de The queen's rising, The queen's resistance, Sisters of sword & song, Dreams Lie Beneath, A river enchanted et Divine Rivals.
Rebecca Ross est une autrice de romans fantastiques pour adolescents et adultes.
Elle vit dans les contreforts des Appalaches au nord-est de la Géorgie avec son mari, un berger australien animé et une pile interminable de livres. Lorsqu'elle n'écrit pas, on la trouve en train de lire ou dans son jardin, où elle fait pousser des fleurs sauvages et des idées d'histoires. Rebecca Ross est fan de Jane Austen et ses écrits sont inspirés par Juliet Marillier et Melina Marchetta
Elle est notamment l'autrice de The queen's rising, The queen's resistance, Sisters of sword & song, Dreams Lie Beneath, A river enchanted et Divine Rivals.
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He found me on my darkest day.
Sometimes I'm afraid to love other people.
Everyone I care about eventually leaves me, whether it's death or war or simply because they don't want me. They go places I can't find, places I can't reach. And I'm not afraid to be alone, but I'm tired of being the one left behind. I'm tired of having to rearrange my life after the people within it depart, as if I'm a puzzle and I'm now missing pieces and I will never feel that pure sens of completion again.
Everyone I care about eventually leaves me, whether it's death or war or simply because they don't want me. They go places I can't find, places I can't reach. And I'm not afraid to be alone, but I'm tired of being the one left behind. I'm tired of having to rearrange my life after the people within it depart, as if I'm a puzzle and I'm now missing pieces and I will never feel that pure sens of completion again.
Do you ever feel as if you wear armor, day after day ? That when people look at you, they see only the shine of steel that you've so carefully encased yourself in ? They see what they want to see in you - the warped reflection of their own face, or a piece of the sky, or a shadow cast between buildings. They see all the times you've made mistakes, all the times you've failed, all the times you've hurt them or disappoint them. As if that is all you will ever be in their eyes.
How do you change something like that ? How do you make your life your own and not feel guilt over it?
How do you change something like that ? How do you make your life your own and not feel guilt over it?
But the moment you walked away, I knew I felt something for you, which I had been denying for weeks. The moment you wrote me and said you were six hundred kilometers away from Oath… I though my heart had stopped. I didn’t want the life my father had planned for me - a life where I could never be with you.
How could he mourn something that he couldn’t remember? Roman wondered if there was a word to describe such a feeling, for the way it gathered on his shoulders like snow. Cold and soft and infinite, melting as soon as he touched it.
I think we all wear armor. I think those who don’t are fools, risking the pain of being wounded by the sharp edges of the world, over and over again. But if I’ve learned anything from those fools, it is that to be vulnerable is a strength most of us fear. It takes courage to let down your armor, to welcome people to see you as you are. Sometimes I feel the same as you: I can’t risk having people behold me as I truly am. But there’s also a small voice in the back of my mind, a voice that tells me, ‘You will miss so much by being so guarded.
It felt like her heart had impaled itself on one of her ribs. That if she reached beneath her coat and sweater and touched her side, her fingers would come away bloodstained.
But I realize that people are just people, and they carry their own set of fears, dreams, desires, pains, and mistakes. I can't expect someone else to make me feel complete; I must find it on my own. And I think I was always writing for myself, to sort through my loss and worry and tangled ambitions. Even now, I think about how effortless it is to lose oneself in words, and yet also find who you are.
I don’t think you realize how strong you are, because sometimes strength isn’t swords and steel and fire, as we are so often made to believe. Sometimes it’s found in quiet, gentle places. The way you hold someone’s hand as they grieve. The way you listen to others. The way you show up, day after day, even when you are weary or afraid or simply uncertain.
That is strength, and I see it in you.
That is strength, and I see it in you.
On some days, I’m afraid, but most days, I simply want to achieve those things I dream of. A world where my brother is home safe, and my mother is well, and I write words that I don’t despise half of the time. Words that will mean something to someone else, as if I’ve cast a line into the dark and felt a tug in the distance.
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Pastiches littéraires
"L'hiver, la Glavoise est un torrent boueux dont les flots tumultueux charrient des arbres morts, des rochers noirs et des sangliers surgelés. Pourtant, sitôt passées les dernières neiges de mai, elle se métamorphose en une rivière paisible qu'on traverse à pied sec au lieudit du Gué-de-la-Corde. C'est là que le voyageur qui arrive à Courtonac par la route de Saint-Hilaire franchit la Glavoise, au Roc-de-la-Châtre. Un peu en aval, la route en pierre traverse le moulin abandonné du père Plasson. Devant le triste spectacle des ronces qui dévorent les meulines à foulon et les flaterets à courroie, on a bien du mal à croire que, jadis, les ânes, les boeufs et les femmes de Courtonac déchargeaient là leurs ballots de bressac frais pour qu'on les y moulût. Solide comme un linteau, son éternelle bamborgne à la bouche, le père Plasson transformait ici les précieuses gousses en une fécule à cataplasme, délicate comme de la peau d'oreille et fraîche comme un cul de pouliche." "Les engoulevents de la Grange-aux-Loups" est un pastiche des romans signés:
Fred Vargas
Christian Signol
Valérie Perrin
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Thèmes :
humour
, pastiche
, jeux littéraires
, littérature
, clichés
, best sellerCréer un quiz sur cet auteur31 lecteurs ont répondu