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To an untrained eye, need and love were as easily mistaken for each other as the real master's painting and a forgery.

Deb Caletti

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Deb Caletti
Age: 61
Born: 1963
Born: June 16
Novelist
Writer
San Rafael
California
Needs
Mistaken
Love
Master
Easily
Masters
Painting
Eye
Need
Forgery
Real
Untrained

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I know parental embarrassment usually stops somewhere at fifteen, but he just kept on giving me good reasons.
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Sometimes you're sure dogs have some secret, superior intelligence, and other times you know they're only their simple, goofy selves.
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Accents are funny in that they have this odd draw for us, yet we forget we have one, too. No one is without an accent, but the one you’ve got seems like oatmeal to their caviar.
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Summer, after all, is a time when wonderful things can happen to quiet people.
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Maybe a person's world can grow bigger in all the right ways, not too wide that it becomes shallow, just large enough to preserve its depth.
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It occurred to me then that a lot of life was either about wanting and not having, or having and not wanting.
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Because words were hills and valleys you traveled, so lovely sometimes that they hurt your eyes.
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I've wished for things and never really had the chance...It's time to stop dreaming and do something about it. You've got to know what you want, then...go.
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You've got to have someone who loves your body. Who doesn't define you, but sees you. Who loves what he sees. Who you don't have to struggle to be good enough for.
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If letting go, if letting people and things work themselves out in the way that they needed to without your help was the most important thing, then it was also the hardest.
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Supposedly there's an actual, researched link between extreme creativity and mental illness, and I believe it because I've seen it with my own eyes.
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This is what happens when nice people are pushed too far. We give too many chances, and so when we've finally had enough, we are well and truly done. When a nice person shuts a door on you, it's shut for good.
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Blessed books—they’re a place to be alone, and no one else can come in.
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she wonders if we feel more regret for the things we do or for the things we didn't do
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I could forget that part, but it had to have been true.
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I tended to give a book a chance and another chance and another, sometimes seeing it all the way to the end, still hoping for for it turn out different. Maybe I was confused about what you owed a book. What you owed people, for that matter, real or fictional.
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I'd always thought telling the truth to other people was hard, but maybe that was a snap compared to telling the truth to yourself. Sometimes we just refused to know what we knew.
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The hurt affects your ability to go forward.
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The way two people can end up in the same place, find each other in a crowd, and change their lives and the lives of the people around them forever... It makes you believe in fate. And fate gives love some authority. Like it's been stamped with approval from above, if you believe in above. A godly green light. Some destined significance.
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I didn't walk over and talk to him, though, not then. If I needed the time for a tree branch to become just a tree branch again and the wind to become just the wind, then a boy, most of all, needed some time to be only a boy.
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