The most haunting thing was not that he didn't love her anymore. She could have accepted that eventually. The most haunting thing was that he did. He loved her from afar. He loved her in a way that was preserved in time, that couldn't be sullied. And she tended it in her careful, curatorial way.
But there were times when you felt miserable and you wanted to feel better, and other times when you felt miserable and you figured you would just keep on feeling miserable.
How could you cleanse yourself if you couldn’t forget?
I allowed myself to suffer how jarringly destructive the present feels and how fragile the past.
Maybe happiness was just a matter of the little upticks- the traffic signal that said "Walk" the second you go there- and downticks- the itch tag at the back of your collar- that happened to every person in the course of the day. Maybe everybody had the same allotted measure of happiness within each day.
Starting is hard so I really need to give myself permission to do a bad job. I always give myself leave to write total nonsense for as long as I need to release the pressure, because it's really hard to start if you feel like that first sentence you write has to actually mean something.
There are going to be moments of deep, deep doubts, and you have to have faith that your initial idea was good and just muddle through.
I think pants have unique qualities, especially in a woman’s life. Whatever bodily insecurities we have, we seem to take out on our pants.
Age is not so much a feature of your character, as the spot where you stand for a pretty fleeting time on the arc of your life.
I love that blurry place where life’s transitions are made without you even knowing it.
I love the idea of fictional worlds kind of all cohering in some way.
For some reason our lives were marked by summers. . . . Summer was the time when our lives joined completely, when we all had our birthdays, when really important things happened
Maybe it didn’t matter if you were a world-famous heartthrob or a painful geek. Maybe it didn’t matter if you friend was possibly dying. Maybe you just got through it. Maybe that was all you could ask for.
I don't have the life of a famous person. But I do feel like I've been able to connect with a lot of people.
A tree is such a rich metaphor in a million beautiful ways. You can consider a tree growing and consider its connectedness to all things above and under the ground.
As much as I'm drawn to writing about teenage girls, I like the idea of having the freedom to branch out and write about different ages, for different ages.
As a writer, you live in such isolation. It's hard to imagine your book has a life beyond you.
Developing characters is a strange thing. In the beginning they are abstract and I wonder how to move on from there.
I agree that a love of reading is a great gift for a parent to pass on to his or her child.
It's so much easier to have no expectations than to have big ones.
My household is, in a nice way, very busy.
The distinction has blurred between young adult and adult books. Some of the teen books have become more sophisticated.
When I turned fifteen, I remember my father gave me a credit card which I was allowed to use for two things: emergencies and books.
Gestating characters feels something like the mental equivalent of gestating a baby. In both cases, to create them you lose yourself. Or at least you reshape yourself to encompass them.
You thought you had the choice to stay still or move forward, but your didn't. As long as your heart kept pumping an your blood kept blowing and your lungs kept filling, you didn't. The pang she felt for Tibby carried something like envy. You couldn't stand still for anything short of death, and God knew she had tried.
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