Eliza And Her Monsters Quotes

You found me in a constellation.

Broken people don't hide from their monsters. Broken people let themselves be eaten.

There are monsters in the sea.

Maybe that’s normal. The things you care most about are the ones that leave the biggest holes.

Like life, what gives a story its meaning is the fact that it ends. Our stories have lives of their own—and its up to us to make them mean something.

I'm so tired. I'm tired of anxiety that twists my stomach so hard I can't move the rest of my body. Tired of constant vigilance. Tired of wanting to do something about myself, but always taking easy way out.

Disappearing is an art form, and I am its queen.

She drew so many monsters that she became a monster herself.

There is a small monster in my brain that controls my doubt. The doubt itself is a stupid thing, without sense or feeling, blind and straining at the end of a long chain. The monster though, is smart. It's always watching, and when I am cmpletely sure of myself, it unchains the doubt and lets it run wild. even when I know it's coming, I can't stop it.

Truth is the worst monster, because it never really goes away.

How can I want something so badly but become so paralyzed every time I think about taking it?

Real people don’t have concise character arcs.

I learned years ago that it’s okay to do this. To seek out small spaces for me, to stop and imagine myself alone. People are too much sometimes. Friends, acquaintances, enemies, strangers. It doesn’t matter; they all crowd. Even if they’re all the way across the room, they crowd. I take a moment of silence and think: I am here. I am okay.

I made Monstrous Sea because it's the story I wanted. I wanted a story like it, and I couldn't find one, so I created it myself.

I'm not normally one to take advice from my fictional characters, but there comes a point in every girl's life where she reaches a crossroads: a night alone with her sweatpants and her favorite television show, or a party with real, live, breathing people.

Wallace: What's the point of being alive if you don't do what makes you happy? What good is a career that makes you money if you hate yourself every day you do it?

I don't want to be the girl who freezes when confronted with new friends, or the outside world, or the smallest shred of intimacy. I don't want to be alone in a room all the time. I don't want to feel alone in a room all the time, even when there are other people around.

If I like a book, I devour it in one sitting, and then I forget a lot. It's fine with me, because I read them over and over again.

That's what I like about the internet-that it gives you time to think about what you want to say before you say it.

Creating art is a lonely task, which is why we introverts revel in it, but when we have fans looming over us, it becomes loneliness of a different sort. We become cage animals watched by zoo-goers, expected to perform lest the crowd grow bored or angry. It's not always bad. Sometimes we do well, and the cage feels more like a pedestal

Monstrous Sea is mine. I made it, not the other way around. It's not a parasite, or an obligation, or a destiny. It's a monster. It's mine. And I have a battle axe waiting for it.

I do have friends. Maybe they live hundreds of miles away from me, and maybe I can only talk to them through a screen, but they're still my friends. They don't just hold Monstrous Sea together. They hold me together. Max and Emmy are the reason any of this exists.

Nature doesn’t care if we feel so heavy we might sink into the ground and never be able to pull ourselves out again.

If you want the motivation back, you must feed it Feed it everything. Books, television, movies, paintings, stage plays, real-life experience. Sometimes feeding simply means working, working through nonmotivation, working even when you hate it. We create art for many reasons - wealth, fame, love, admiration - but I find the one thing that produces the best results is desire. When you want the thing you're creating, the beauty of it will shine through, even if the details aren't all in order. Desire is the fuel of creators, and when we have that, motivation will come in its wake.

It looks so peaceful.” “Peaceful, huh? Haven't you heard? There are monsters in the sea.

That computer is my rabbit hole; the internet is my wonderland. I am only allowed to fall into it when it doesn’t matter if I get lost.

There is a small monster in my brain that controls my doubt.

The things you care most about are the ones that leave the biggest holes.

My body gets excited without my permission, and it's not okay. It's out of control. I don't like out of control, but I like Wallace.

„Wallace.” He looks up. „I want to be happy,” I say. „Me too,” he says.

I do have friends. Maybe they live hundreds of miles away from me, and maybe I can only talk to them through a screen, but they're still my friends.

People are too much sometimes. Friends, acquaintances, enemies, strangers. It doesn’t matter; they all crowd.

Made you breakfast. Are you feeling okay? You look a little gray.” I grunt. Morning is the devil’s time.

Anyone who thinks that’s an easy way out hasn’t had to face it.

Ideas are the asexual reproduction of the mind. You don’t have to share them with anyone else.

- What kind of guy is usually interested in you? - The kind I make up in my head.

I am an absolute wreck of a human being, and right now I am completely okay with it.

I don’t know anymore. I don’t know, I don’t know, god, I’m so tired.

I have to try, because I’m doing it again—I’m shutting everything out because I’m frustrated and tired and because the real world is difficult and I’d rather live in one of my own making.

He has dimples. Sweet Jesus, dimples. I want to stick my fingers in them.

Like life, what gives a story its meaning is the fact that it ends. Our stories have lives of their own—and it’s up to us to make them mean something .

We create art for many reasons—wealth, fame, love, admiration—but I find the one thing that produces the best results is desire.

MirkerLurker: I thought the characters were the reason anyone read Monstrous Sea. rainmaker: You mean like, shipping? MirkerLurker: No, not shipping - shipping's great, and I do it all the time, but I mean... the characters themselves. The struggles they have to go through, and when you really love them, how much they affect you. When the characters are good, they make you care about everything else. That's why I draw them. It probably sounds dumb, but they're like real people to me. And this will probably sound worse, but sometimes I like them better than real people. I can empathize with characters. Real people are harder.

Our stories have lives of their own-and it's up to us to make them mean something.

Creators shouldn’t feel this way about their fans. I shouldn’t want them to disappear. They’re the reason I have . . . the reason I have anything.

I can empathize with characters. Real people are harder. Real people don’t have concise character arcs.

What are you doing for Halloween on Friday? Probably going to be dead in my grave because rainmaker goes to my school and I didn't know it until just now.

That computer is my rabbit hole; the internet is my wonderland.

Desire is the fuel of creators, and when we have that, motivation will come in its wake.

Her mind was still tiptoeing along the boundary of consciousness, in that state of semi-waking that spins threads between dream and real, and for a moment she felt herself to be a girl who has come down off a porch to confront a great darkness with a tiny light.

rainmaker: Weird, I didn’t know you had such a thing for timid guys. MirkerLurker: Really does it for me when a guy is paralyzed with fear on a regular basis . rainmaker: Aw. Sad. MirkerLurker: What’s sad? rainmaker: That it would never work between us. I’m too courageous.

Sully and Church stuff their gangly selves in the backseat of my car so Wallace can sit in the passenger seat. „No hanky panky up there,” Sully says. „Yeah,” Church adds. „If I see a hand cross those seats, it will get smacked.” „Smacked?” Sully says. „If I see a hand cross those seats, I'll chop it off and burn it.

...happiness trickles from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet.

It is amazing how much you can learn when you keep your mouth shut.

Eliza, your worth as a person is not dependent on the art you create or what other people think of it.

Good exercise,' aka the actual worst phrase in the English language next to 'wake up' and 'all the eggs are gone.

Wallace has read my mind. He has divined the things I thought while drawing this comic and put them down on paper. I don’t understand it, and I don’t know how this chain of events happened. But Wallace Warland can do magic. Actual, real magic. With words.

I bet college doesn’t have parking issues like this.

If you know what you’re meant to do, if you know what you love, why not do that? Find a way to do it, find a way to make money doing it.

Creating art is a lonely task, which is why we introverts revel in it,

Like life, what gives a story its meaning is the fact that it ends. Our stories have lives of their own—and it’s up to us to make them mean something.

I’m doing it again—I’m shutting everything out because I’m frustrated and tired and because the real world is difficult and I’d rather live in one of my own making.

I've always wondered what it would be like to be the person whose color comes through even when standing still.

It's not that I think I'm ugly, I just don't think about what I look like. I don't live out there. If I had my way, I wouldn't >b>look like anything at all. I would be a free-floating consciousness that can also somehow draw. I don't care how I look. I don't want to care.

It feels like I already know what I want to do, and school is wasting my time. Like they assume we don’t know what we want to do, so they make us keep doing everything. I can’t wait to leave.

It's a strange feeling to like someone so much and yet be terrified to have them in your space, touching you. It isn't that I don't like it when we touch- when we brush arms or when he taps me on the shoulder or when I pick a piece of lint off his shirt. I like it too much. My body gets excited without my permission, and it's not okay. It's out of control.

Have you ever seen it in your parents? That moment when they become people? I think you have. It sneaks up on you, doesn't it? One day they're parents, and the next they say something racist, or get a cut that takes too long to heal, or make a simple mistake driving, and a facade falls away and they become mortals like the rest of us. After the facade is gone, it can never come back" -Wallace

Sometimes it’s . . . tough to say things. Certain things.” His voice is hardly a whisper. I sit down beside him again, but his big hand blocks my view of the words. He stops writing, leaves the paper there, and stares. Then he hands it to me and looks the other direction. Can I kiss you?

There is a small monster in my brain that controls my doubt. The doubt itself is a stupid thing, without sense or feeling, blind and straining at the end of a long chain. The monster, though, is smart. It’s always watching, and when I am completely sure of myself, it unchains the doubt and lets it run wild. Even when I know it’s coming, I can’t stop it.

Maybe then they’d leave me the fuck alone in the corner with my turkey and my mashed potatoes and my phone.

I’m not saying you can’t do writing, just do some writing that you can build a career on. Creative writing isn’t going to get you anywhere.

Broken people don’t hide from their monsters. Broken people let themselves be eaten.

It’s not that I don’t like the outdoors. It’s that I don’t see the point of the outdoors when there’s so much I could be doing indoors.

What’s the point of being alive if you don’t do what makes you happy? What good is a career that makes you money if you hate yourself every day you do it?

I am Eliza Mirk, daughter and sister and friend. I am Eliza Mirk, mother of a fandom. I am Eliza Mirk.

Truth is the worst monster, because it never really goes away" -Eliza

Monstrous Sea is mine. I made it, not the other way around. It’s not a parasite, or an obligation, or a destiny. It’s a monster. It’s mine. And I have a battle axe waiting for it.

You Found Me In A Constellation

don’t want to be friends with people who have already decided I’m too weird to live.

Nature defies my anger. Nature defies every emotion I have. I can't complain to nature, or appeal to it, or rage at it. Nature doesn't care about me

I know it sounds weird. Sorry. I don’t think it’ll go well if I know it’s coming. I will definitely freak out and punch you in the face or scream bloody murder or something like that.

I’m not going. I like to tell myself I might go—I like to tell myself I might do a lot of things—but I and my brain and everyone else know that I’m going to chicken out in the end and barricade myself in my bedroom with a plate of pizza rolls and my Netflix subscription.

Suppose ‘Heaven’ and ‘Hell’ are just other universes.” “Just other universes,” Eliza repeated, smiling. “And the Big Bang was just an explosion.” Dr. Chaudhary chuckled. “Is another universe bigger or smaller than the idea of God? Does it matter? If there is a sphere where ‘angels’ dwell, is it a matter of semantics, whether we choose to call it Heaven?” “No,” Eliza replied, swiftly and firmly, a bit to her own surprise. “It isn’t a matter of semantics. It’s a matter of motive.” “I beg your pardon?” Dr. Chaudhary gave her a quizzical look. Something in Eliza’s tone had hardened. “What do they want?” she asked. “I think that’s the bigger question. They came from somewhere.” There is another universe. “And if that somewhere has nothing to do with ‘God’ ”—It doesn’t.—“then they’re acting on their own behalf. And that’s scary.

Honey, your father’s just saying that, you know, this is the first time you’ve really hung out with a boy, and we should think about scheduling a few doctors’ appointments—

It’s Christmas?

My heart jumps out of staccato rhythm in my chest and my stomach sloshes around like the great foaming tides of Orcus.

Thank god. I thought I had cabin fever or something.” “High school fever.” “High school fever: like The Shining, but with teenagers.

Good exercise,” aka the actual worst phrase in the English language next to “wake up” and “all the eggs are gone.

I just don’t think about what I look like. I don’t live out there. If I had my way, I wouldn’t look like anything at all. I would be a free-floating consciousness

I start to say no, then stop myself. I have to try. I have to try, because I’m doing it again-I’m shutting everything out because I’m frustrated and tired and because the real world is difficult and I’d rather live in one of my own making. But I can’t. I am here, and I have to try.

MirkerLurker: What’s wrong with the name Wallace? Apocalypse_Cow: it’s, uh. emmersmacks: Its silly as hell MirkerLurker: Wallace isn’t a silly name! Apocalypse_Cow: it makes me think of a cartoon character. emmersmacks: There are hardcore potheads on campus named Wallace MirkerLurker: Why do you know the names of hardcore potheads on campus? emmersmacks: Because theyre friendly

...the characters themselves. The struggles they have to go through, and when you really love them, how much they affect you. When the characters are good, they make you care about everything else. That's why I draw them. It probably sounds dumb, but they're like real people to me. And this will probably sound worse, but sometimes I like them better than real people. I can empathize with characters. Real people are harder.

Wallace stares at the field for a long second, then turns back and, before I can react, leans down to kiss me. He tastes like sweat and lemonade. It’s quick. Easy. He pulls away, eyes down, voice soft. “Surprise,” he says. The relief registers. I wrinkle my nose and laugh. “Like hell.” “Please, you know you love this.” He flaps his sweaty shirt in my direction before turning and jogging back. “I love you,” I say, but he’s too far away to hear it. That’s okay. He knows.

Of course, there are crude messages. Vile ones. Ones that don’t seem like they cam from a real human being at all, but some computer program designed to say things no person should say to another person. I read all of those too, like Pringles- they might be terrible for you, but once you pop, you can’t stop. This is a rollercoaster that only goes down. Near the end I feel like a hollow shell clicking a mouse, scanning words with aching eyes.

I sit on an outcropping of rock above the lake and try to be angry, but I can’t hold the feeling. I need erupting volcanoes, hurricanes, massive earthquakes. Were I working on Monstrous Sea right now, Orcus’s monsters would bleed from the page in the search for flesh. I need vindication. I do not need little birds twittering over a wide expanse of shimmering lake and a light wind ruffling my hair. Nature defies my anger. Nature defies every emotion I have. I can’t complain to nature, or appeal to it, or rage at it. Nature doesn’t care about me.

Eliza. I need to borrow you for a little while.” Mrs. Grier has a bad habit of grabbing the first student who walks through her door when she needs something, and today I’m the unlucky plebe she gets her happy teacher hands on. She beams at me, looking the picture of joy in an unseasonal yellow sundress and earrings shaped like bananas. I ease my arm out of her hand so it doesn’t seem like I don’t want her to touch me. I don’t mind Mrs. Grier. Most days I like her. I wish I had her for an actual class instead of just homeroom, because she doesn’t make me talk if I don’t want to, and she counts showing up to class as your entire participation grade.

Monstrous Sea Private Message 2:54 p.m. 28 - Oct -16 rainmaker: Hey, it’s Wallace. Please tell me I blew your mind again. You make the best face when your mind is being blown. MirkerLurker: Whoa that sounded dirty. rainmaker: Too much? MirkerLurker: Ummmmmmmmmm rainmaker: Too much. Noted. MONSTROUS SEA FORUMS USER PROFILE rainmaker * Fanfiction Moderator AGE: Not telling you LOCATION: NO INTERESTS: MS. Writing things.Campfires. Sweaters. Sleeping in. Dogs. Followers 1,350,199 | Following 54 | Posts 9,112 [Unique Works 144] UPDATES View earlier updates Oct 20 2016 The next chapter of the Auburn Blue fanfic will probably be a little late. Just started at the new school. So, that’s fun. Oct 21 2016 Thanks to @joojooboogee for my new avatar! #DallasRainerForever Oct 23 2016 If math homework were a real person, I’d be doing 25 to life. #Mathslaughter Oct 24 2016 There might actually be other MS fans at this school. THANK JESUS I’M SAVED. Oct 26 2016 Life is destroying me today. No time to write. Stupid math. #Mathslaughter Oct 27 2016 Definitely another MS fan at this school. Pros: Awesome; Not alone; Pretty girl. Cons: Pretty girl. #Fuuuuuuuuck Oct 28 2016 Heyyyy let’s not talk about the pretty girl anymore okay she’s probably looking at this.

The story is at once very easy and very hard to explain. I’ve never tried to do it in person, but I imagine if I did, I would end up vomiting on someone’s shoes. Explaining something online is as simple as pasting a link and saying, “Here, read this.” They click. Read the intro page. If they like it, they keep reading. If not, oh well, at least I didn’t have to talk. If I did have to explain the story without the very handy reference of the story itself, I imagine it would sound something like this: “On distant planet Orcus, a girl and boy fight on opposite sides of a long war between the natives and colonists from Earth. The girl and boy are hosts to parasitic energy creatures whose only weakness is each other. There’s lots of ocean, and there are monsters in that ocean. Stuff happens. Colors are pretty.” There’s a reason I’m an artist and not a writer.

How is she already asleep?” Sully whispers. “At home she stays up until like two a.m.” “She probably was tired,” Church whispers back. “What, from climbing a hill?” Church doesn’t respond. They get into their sleeping bags and whisper for half an hour about the outdoor soccer season about to start. I hadn’t even realized the indoor season was over—Mom and Dad just told me when I needed to take them to practice or pick them up. I didn’t know how they’d done. Were there any tournaments? Trophies? After a long stretch of silence, Sully says, “So did you really try out for the spring musical?” Church doesn’t respond for a second. “Yes. Why?” “Just wondering. Why didn’t you tell me?” “Because you would have made it about Macy Garrison.” “It—it’s not?” “No.” “Oh. But you’re not going to try out forchoir?” “Maybe.” “Why?” Just the smallest bit of mocking enters Sully’s tone. “Because I like it,” Church snaps back. “We don’t have to do all the same things. Try out for mathletes or something. You like math. You’d be good at it.” “Mathletes is for nerds.” “Sull, there’s something you should know.” “Don’t say it.” “You are a nerd.” “I’m not a nerd. Eliza’s a nerd.” “Actually, I think Eliza’s a geek. I’ve seen her grades. Compared to us, she’s horrible at school.” “You’re a nerd for knowing the difference.” “That’s fine.” Sully makes no sound, but I can feel him fuming in the darkness. I didn’t know Church could get under Sully’s skin so easily. I didn’t know Sully liked math. I didn’t know either of them were that good at school. I didn’t know Church already knew he was good at singing . . . or that he was interested in musical theater. I’ve been living with them their whole lives, but until right now, they’ve felt like strangers

Do you have a piece of paper I could write on?” I jump up too fast. “Sure. Just one? Do you—of course you need something to write with. Sorry. Here.” I grab him a paper from my deskdrawer and one of my myriad pencils, and he uses the first Children of Hypnos book as a flat surface to write on. When I’m sure he’s writing something for me to read right now, I say, “I thought you only needed to do that when other people were around?” He etches one careful line after the next. He frowns, shakes his head. “Sometimes it’s . . . tough to say things. Certain things.” His voice is hardly a whisper. I sit down beside him again, but his big hand blocks my view of the words. He stops writing, leaves the paper there, and stares. Then he hands it to me and looks the other direction. Can I kiss you? “Um,” is a delightfully complex word. “Um” means “I want to say something but don’t know what it is,” and also “You have caught me off guard,” and also “Am I dreaming right now? Someone please slap me.” I say “um,” then. Wallace’s entire head-neck region is already flushed with color, but the “um” darkens it a few shades, and goddammit, he was nervous about asking me and I made it worse. What good is “um” when I should say “YES PLEASE NOW”? Except there’s no way I’m going to say “YES PLEASE NOW” because I feel like my body is one big wired time bomb of organs and if Wallace so much as brushes my hand, I’m going to jump out of my own skin and run screaming from the house. I’ll like it too much. Out of control. No good. I say, “Can I borrow that pencil?” He hands me the pencil, again without looking. Yes, but not right now. I know it sounds weird. Sorry. I don’t think it’ll go well if I know it’s coming. I will definitely freak out and punch you in the face or scream bloody murder or something like that. Surprising me with it would probably work better. I am giving you permission to surprise me with a kiss. This is a formal invitation for surprise kisses. I don’t like writing the word “kiss.” It makes my skin crawl. Sorry. It’s weird. I’m weird. Sorry. I hope that doesn’t make you regret asking. I hand the paper and pencil back. He reads it over, then writes: No regret. I can do surprises. That’s it. That’s it? Shit. Now he’s going to try to surprise me with a kiss. At some point. Later today? Tomorrow? A week from now? What if he never does it and I spend the rest of the time we hang out wondering if he will? What have I done? This was a terrible idea. I’m going to vomit. “Be right back,” I say, and run to the bathroom to curl up on the floor. Just for like five minutes. Then I go back to my room and sit down beside Wallace. As I’m moving myself into position, his hand falls over mine, and I don’t actually jump out of my skin. My control shakes for a moment, but I turn in to it, and everything smooths out. I flip my hand over. He flexes his fingers so I can fit mine in the spaces between. And we sit there, shoulder to shoulder, with our hands resting on the bed between us. It’s not so bad