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Sometimes you build up these walls, you build and you build and you build up these walls and you think they’re so strong, but then someone can come along and tip them over with only his fingers, or the weight of his breath.

Deb Caletti

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Deb Caletti
Age: 61
Born: 1963
Born: June 16
Novelist
Writer
San Rafael
California
Someone
Breath
Come
Breaths
Sometimes
Fingers
Think
Weight
Thinking
Build
Along
Wall
Strong
Walls

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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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Maybe it was wrong, or maybe impossible, but I wanted the truth to be one thing. One solid thing.
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Funny the only two times we use the phrase seeing someone are when we are referring to being in a a relationship or getting psychological help.
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Ive never met a popcorn ball I didnt like.
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And pity--people who inspire it in you are actually very powerful people. To get someone else to take care of you, to feel sorry for you--that takes a lot of strength, smarts, manipulation. Very powerful people.
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It's shocking the things we call love.
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She'd be one of those parents who left a kid behind at a rest stop, driving for miles before she noticed. We'd hear about her on the evening news.
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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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It makes you realize how basically everything we do comes down to a) mating or b) competing for resources. It’s just like Animal Planet, only we’ve got Cover Girl and Victoria’s Secret instead of colored feathers and fancy markings, and the violence occurs at the Nordstrom’s Half-Yearly Sale.
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Are you getting your period? She narrows her eyes. No! God. I hate that. I hate when every negative act is blamed on your period. Sometimes bitchiness is just bitchiness, happily unattached to anything hormonal. It should get full credit.
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There are so many different fifteens. And eighteens. And forty-twos, for that matter. Mature fifteens and young fifteens and wise fifteens and lost fifteens. And angry fifteens.
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This is just one of those annoying and unjust differences between you and your younger sibling...I was probably fifteen before I could go to a friend's house without giving mom an FBI dossier on the people Bex can practically hitchhike on the freeway with a mere Have fun, honey.
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I would have spoken, had my heart not been in my throat
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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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You could put your confusion and upset and worries into whatever book you were reading. You could sort of set them down in there, and you could come out with your head on a little straighter. I don't why stories worked that way, but they did.
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Sometimes I’ve even wished there was a human pause button, where you could choose some point in your life where you could stay always.
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Because words were hills and valleys you traveled, so lovely sometimes that they hurt your eyes.
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The hurt affects your ability to go forward.
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She would bring you some great book because she was a book matchmaker, because she loved books the way other girls loved clothes.
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My subconscious speaks in a foreign language.
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