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Large meadows are lovely for picnics and romping, but they are for the lighter feelings. Meadows do not make me want to write.

Aimee Bender

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Aimee Bender
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: June 28
Novelist
Writer
the United States of America
Feelings
Writing
Picnics
Make
Lighters
Lighter
Meadows
Lovely
Large
Write

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But the sky is interesting, it changes all the time.
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We're all getting too smart. Our brains are just getting bigger and bigger, and the world dries up and dies when there's too much thought and not enough heart.
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It is so often surprising, who rescues you at your lowest moments.
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I watched as she added a question mark at the end. Arc, line, space, dot.
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You try, you seem totally nuts, you go underground.
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Glen Hirshberg's stories are haunting, absolutely, but not only because of the content -- the stories themselves haunt, they stick around, they linger, inhabiting a little corner of the reader's brain and resurfacing to evoke mystery or sadness or longing. It's a pleasure to dive into Hirshberg's storytelling skills in American Morons.
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I don't think so, I don't agree. The most unbearable thing I think by far, she said, is hope.
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When the light at Vernon turned green, we stepped into the street and George grabbed my hand and the ghosts of our younger selves crossed with us.
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You can ruin anything if you focus at it.
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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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It seems the best work I do is when I am really allowing the unconscious to rule the page and then later I can go back and hack around and make sense of things.
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Mom loved my brother more. Not that she didn't love me - I felt the wash of her love every day, pouring over me, but it was a different kind, siphoned from a different, and tamer, body of water. I was her darling daughter Joseph was her it.
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Light is good company, when alone I took my comfort where I found it, and the warmest yellow bulb in the living-room lamp had become a kind of radiant babysitter all its own.
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The writing I tend to think of as 'good' is good because it's mysterious.
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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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The wine glasses are empty except for that one undrinkable red spot at the bottom.
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Language is the ticket to plot and character, after all, because both are built out of language.
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I felt the crumpled paper that had taken the place of my lungs expand as if released from a fist.
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It seemed to happen in springs, the revealing of things.
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That's the thing with handmade items. They still have the person's mark on them, and when you hold them, you feel less alone. This is why everyone who eats a Whopper leaves a little more depressed than they were when they came in. Nobody cooked that burger.
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