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But I loved George in part because he believed me because if I stood in a cold, plain room and yelled FIRE, he would walk over and ask me why.

Aimee Bender

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Aimee Bender
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: June 28
Novelist
Writer
the United States of America
Part
Walk
Would
Room
Cold
Rooms
Yelled
Walks
Plain
Loved
Stood
Fire
George
Asks
Believed

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But what I kept wondering about is this: that first second when she felt her skirt burning, what did she think? Before she knew it was candles, did she think she'd done it herself? With the amazing turns of her hips, and the warmth of the music inside her, did she believe, for even one glorious second, that her passion had arrived?
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…kissing George was a little like rolling in caramel after spending years surviving off rice sticks.
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Not getting bored of my own story and/or character is one of the main struggles I have had with novel writing, and I have put to bed big chunks of work that just didn't sustain my interest.
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I peeled the skin off a grape in slippery little triangles, and I understood then that I would be undressing every item of food I could because my clothes would be staying on.
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My eyelids are my own private cave, he murmured. That I can go to anytime I want.
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It was like we were exchanging codes, on how to be a father and a daughter, like we'd read about it in a manual, translated from another language, and were doing our best with what we could understand.
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The wine glasses are empty except for that one undrinkable red spot at the bottom.
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You try, you seem totally nuts, you go underground.
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I watched as she added a question mark at the end. Arc, line, space, dot.
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You're the perfect girl', he said, rubbing his chin. 'You expect nothing.
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As a writer you ask yourself to dream while awake.
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It is so often surprising, who rescues you at your lowest moments.
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With my hand in his, I looked at all the apartment buildings with rushes of love, peering in the wide streetside windows that revealed living rooms painted in dark burgandies and matte reds.
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