Steal Your Thunder Quotes & Sayings

Some readers may be disturbed that I wrote 'The Secret Life of Emily Dickinson' in Emily's own voice. I wasn't trying to steal her thunder or her music. I simply wanted to imagine my way into the head and heart of Emily Dickinson. — Jerome Charyn

Besides, I don't want to steal your thunder," I tease. — Kim Holden

When Archer spoke in an awed whisper, he confirmed my suspicion. "That's crazy insane, like completely senseless, but it might work." Daemon sent him a killer look. "Gee, why don't you go ahead and tell them what I'm thinking." "Oh, no." Archer waved his hand dismissively. "I don't want to steal your thunder." "I think you already did, so - — Jennifer L. Armentrout

My mullet was an insecurity shield. My mullet was an ethnic hatchet. My mullet was an arrow on fire.
My mullet said to the literary world, Hello, you privileged prep-school assholes, I'm here to steal your thunder, lightning, and book sales. — Sherman Alexie

66 is the path of a people in flight, refugees from dust and shrinking land, from the thunder of tractors and shrinking ownership, from the desert's slow northward invasion, from the twisting winds that howl up out of Texas, from the floods that bring no richness to the land and steal what little richness is there. From all of these the people are in flight, and they come into 66 from the tributary side roads, from the wagon tracks and the rutted country roads. 66 is the mother road, the road of flight. Clarksville — John Steinbeck

How about we really steal Brittany's thunder by giving the London paparazzi an exclusive?"
"What sort of exclusive?"
"Let's show them how much I love Morgan Abbot."
"Love?" Was I really hearing this? "You ... are in love with me?"
"Totally. One hundred percent head over heels in love with you, Morg. Have been ever since you led me on that goofy chase around the White House. — Cassidy Calloway

You can try to steal the thunder all you want, it just reminds people I'm the lightning. You rumble in the distance. I light up the sky. — Dane Cook

He got up and walked out to the road. The black shape of it running from dark to dark. Then the distant low rumble. Not thunder. You could feel it under your feet. A sound without cognate and so without description. Something imponderable shifting out there in the dark. The earth itself contracting with the cold. It did not come again. What time of year? What age the child? He walked out into the road and stood. The silence. The salitter drying from the earth. The mudstained shapes of flooded cities burned to the waterline. At a crossroads a ground set with dolmen stones where the spoken bones of oracles lay moldering. No sound but the wind. What will you say? A living man spoke these lines? He sharpened a quill with his small pen knife to scribe these things in sloe or lampblack? At some reckonable and entabled moment? He is coming to steal my eyes. To seal my mouth with dirt. — Cormac McCarthy