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It's probably weird to think about an addiction like it's a sentient being, but that's how it feels. Like it's something living inside you. Something you can't get rid of because killing it means killing you.

Ellen Hopkins

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Ellen Hopkins
Age: 69
Born: 1955
Born: March 26
Novelist
Writer
Long Beach
California
Ellen Louise Hopkins
Mean
Addiction
Something
Weird
Think
Killing
Thinking
Inside
Like
Probably
Living
Means
Feels
Sentient

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Every high has an equal, measurable low.
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Imperfections create character.
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God wasn't love, couldn't be love. Because for me, love was a corpse.
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Can a dream be wrong? Aren't dreams God's way of telling you things?
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Life is full of choices. We don't always make good ones. It seems to Kristina you gotta be crazy to open your windows, invite the demons in. Bree throws rocks at the feeble glass, laughs
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I really have to wonder who or what made Daddy become this way. Babies aren't born cruel or filled with sick desire. Evil is not intrinsic. It's fashioned.
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Whatever has happened in someone's past, the future is theirs to shape. The first step is to find a way out.
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Authors have to write for their characters, for who they are, that's the strength of books. Don't worry about censors. Just write the story you need to tell and the rewards will come.
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Too much to take in, too much to purge. Why must every memory, once sweet, dead end in such ugliness?
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Puzzle pieces don't always connect do they?
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You'll only find happy endings in books. Some books.
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They think old people are lame. But they're not. They're awesome, & I know exactly why I think so. It's because they've lived entire lifetimes. Loved. Laughed. Surrendered. Stumbled. Weathered, beaten, still they don't crumble, not even as they inch toward death.
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Even without them touching me, I feel dirty about what I do. Alex does even filthier things but says it all washes off with soap. I don’t believe that. I think it all leaves stains. Indelible stains.
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She is angle. I am curve. Together, we are geometric sculpture, and we make perfect sense.
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Always before, I just said no, left it solidly there. I waver now. I want to share everything with him. Want to know what he knows, feel what he feels, share the same space he's in.
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Happiness is a bull's-eye, awaiting arrows of pain.
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But death doesn't scare me. To know exactly when I might expect it, up close and in my face, would actually be a comfort. Because to tell the truth, most of the time dying seems pretty much like my only means of escape.
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Afraid to Die Loveless Because I think if you die without knowing love in this life, that's how you'll spend eternity. Alone. Frozen.
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Detailed descriptions, abstract ambitions, relevant observations, your's and mine.
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He has built a pedestal for her so tall that she is afraid to be lifted atop it, because to fall would mean certain death. But oh, she would rise far, far beyond fear and be held by arms so strong, and love so pure, that falling would not be an option.
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