All writers start with a layer of truth, don’t they? If not, their stories would be nothing but spools of cotton candy, a fleeting taste wrapped around nothing but air.
It was no coincidence, that fear could move a person to extremes, just as seamlessly as love. They were the conjoined twins of emotion: If you didn’t know what was at stake to lose, you had nothing to fight for.
The world just feels different for those of us who come alive after dark. It’s more fragile and unreal, a replica of the one everyone else inhabits.
You would be surprised at the lengths you will go to believe the best about someone if you truly love him.
Everyone has a story; everyone hides his past as a means of self-preservation. Some just do it better, and more thoroughly, than others.
But sometimes, in order to win, you have to make sacrifices.
When was the last time someone read aloud to you? Probably when you were a child, and if you think back, you’ll remember how safe you felt, tucked under the covers, or curled in someone’s arms, as a story was spun around you like a web.
It feels like a punch. Tears fill my eyes, and I wonder how I could be upset over losing something I never had.
It’s the child who’s supposed to cry, and the mom who makes it all better, not the other way around, which is why mothers will move heaven and earth to hold it together in front of their own kids.
Her mouth is always on the verge of a smile. It makes her look like there’s always something amazing she needs to tell me, even when it’s just hello.
Don’t pay back in kind, pay back in kindness. If someone does wrong by you, do right by them.
The doctors may be mapping out the war games, but it is the nurses who make the conflict bearable.
Dante believed God punished suicides by trapping the person’s spirit in a tree trunk. On Judgment Day, they were the only sinners who didn’t get their souls back, because they tried to get rid of them once before.
I’m grateful for my children, who are slowly emerging to become their own wonderful, interesting, compassionate young adults – which makes me believe that along the way I must have done something right.
They don’t like the thought of someone else making demands on the person whom they see as belonging entirely to them.
I started writing when I had three kids under the age of 4. I used to write every ten minutes I got to sit in front of a computer. Now, when I have more time, I function the same way: if it’s writing time, I write.
I used to believe everything my brother told me, because he was older and I figured he knew more about the world. But as it turns out, being a grown-up doesn’t mean you’re fearless. It just means you fear different things.
But there’s a part of me that wonders what it would be like to be the most important person to someone else, to always feel like you were missing a piece of yourself when he wasn’t near you.
I believe that having something to hope for – even if it’s just a better tomorrow- is the most powerful drug on this planet.
Just because fate had thrown another obstacle in my way didn’t mean I had to give up my dreams.