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Healing wasn’t always the best thing. Sometimes a hole was better left open. Sometimes it healed too thick and too well and left separate pieces fused and incompetent. And it was harder to reopen after that.

Ann Brashares

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Ann Brashares
Age: 57
Born: 1967
Born: July 30
Film Writer
Novelist
Writer
City of Alexandria
Virginia
Sometimes
Pieces
Incompetent
Thing
Wasn
Healed
Always
Open
Hole
Life
Left
Thick
Best
Holes
Better
Separate
Wells
Healing
Reopen
Well
Harder
Fused

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He could lose himself in her forever, he thought.
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She knew whose love she doubted. It wasn't her parents' and it wasn't her friends: It was her own.
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Everything good requires sacrifices.
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It was like a dream you might have after death in which lost people came back to life, your friends loved you again no matter what you had done, and your failures were unaccountably forgiven.
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Someday when you're twenty, maybe, I'll see you again. You'll be this hot soccer star at some great school, with a million guys more interesting than I am chasing you down. And you know what? I'll see you and I'll pray you want me still.
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As a writer, you live in such isolation. It's hard to imagine your book has a life beyond you.
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Don't talk to me. I'm tired and grumpy and I'll probably make fun of you.
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Her body was a prison, her mind was a prison. Her memories were a prison. The people she loved. She couldn't get away from the hurt of them. She could leave Eric, walk out of her apartment, walk forever if she liked, but she couldn't escape what really hurt. Tonight even the sky felt like a prison.
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Maybe, sometimes, it's easier to be mad at the people you trust because you know they'll always love you, no matter what.
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I mean putting yourself out there in the way of overwhelming happiness and knowing you're also putting yourself in the way of terrible harm. I'm scared to be this happy. I'm scared to be this extreme.
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She wondered if maybe tragedy was what it took to make your heart capable of admitting a new member.
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I agree that a love of reading is a great gift for a parent to pass on to his or her child.
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I killed her once and died for her many times and I still have nothing to show for it. I always search for her I always remember her. I carry the hope that someday she will remember me.
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Besides being asked why I write about young characters, I am often asked how I write about young characters. How do I throw myself across the chasm of full adulthood to relive that period? I guess I don’t, really. 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.
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He took her hand and they started walking toward the baggage claim. They didn't say anything to each other. They swung their held hands like little kids, like they believed anything could happen, like they might take off soaring into the air. All the things you wanted to happen could happen. Why not?
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What if people knew they were recycled? Would that change anything?
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He just wanted to look at her and know her life was marching along under the same arch of time and space as he is.
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It’s more that I’m afraid of time. And not having enough of it. Time to figure out who I’m supposed to be… to find my place in the world before I have to leave it. I’m afraid of what I’ll miss.
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Carmen was bad at loving. She loved too hard.
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Grief was like a newborn, and the first three months were hard as hell, but by six months you'd recognized defeat, shifted your life around, and made room for it.
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