The golden rule of writing is to write what you care about. If you care about your topic, you’ll do your best writing, and then you stand the best chance of really touching a reader in some way.
Events become feelings, feelings become events.
Angels and crows passed each other, one leaving, the other coming.
Peer pressure is just that: pressure.
I have a curious background for someone who turns out to be a writer.
Whom do I write for? I write for the story. Each story, it seems to me, knows best how it should be told. As I once put my ear to the railroad track, I listen now for the voice of my story.
And the more you love someone, the safer it is to be mad at them. Love can handle mad, no problem.
I didn’t realize we were being watched. We were all being watched.
I became a children’s author by accident.
I’ll still be missing you as much as ever. I’l still smile at the memory of you. I’ll still be – Okay, I’ll say it again – loving you, but I won’t abandon myseld for you. I cannot be faithful to you without being faithful to myself.
If we are destined to be together again, be happy to know you’ll be getting the real me, not some blubbering half me.
She laughed when there was no joke. She danced when there was no music. She had no friends, yet she was the friendliest person in school.
Many girls have been romanced under the moon, and I don’t mean to say moonlight is overrated, but few I think have known the magic of a sunrise kiss.
He’s so cute, I can’t help myself.
His smile was so wide he’d have had to break it into sections to fit it through a doorway.
She taught me to revel. She taught me to wonder. She taught me to laugh. My sense of humor had always measured up to everyone else’s; but timid introverted me, I showed it sparingly: I was a smiler. In her presence I threw back my head and laughed out loud for the first time in my life.
Love is big. Love makes room for conflicting feelings.
No one’s hurt is too small, no worry too removed, no blessing so elusive that it cannot be seen by the eyes in the back of the human heart.
Cross the creek on the stepping stones of your failures.
This was the ghetto: where children grow down instead of up.