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The wind kicks in stronger, branches clatter. Or maybe skeletons. Bones of abandonment. Ghosts that will never be.

Ellen Hopkins

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Ellen Hopkins
Age: 69
Born: 1955
Born: March 26
Novelist
Writer
Long Beach
California
Ellen Louise Hopkins
Maybe
Abandonment
Never
Ghosts
Kicks
Branches
Ghost
Bones
Stronger
Clatter
Wind
Skeletons

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Your hurt swallows ine, like space swallows time, and the two intertwine. We tangle together.
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Anger requires energy, something I don't dare waste on what cannot be altered.
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Many readers share their stories with me and if one speaks to me (or if the same theme keeps coming at me), I will research it and decide if it would make a good book. But, straight down to it, people inspire me.
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Love without trust is nothing more than infatuation.
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I write poetry anyway and have for years and years. For me, putting fiction and poetry together is like the best of both worlds.
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She is angle. I am curve. Together, we are geometric sculpture, and we make perfect sense.
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Sorry. But I don't need some money-grubbing preacher defining my relationship with God.
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Some secrets can't be kept too long. No matter how hard you try to hide them, sooner or later they scurry out from your cupboards, cockroaches on the run.
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Ask me, it's a sin to pervert faith with religion. Despite every church, mosque, & synagogue in it, this is not the world any God worth his salt would have created.
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Think long and hard before offering your heart to someone who can only accept it part-time
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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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I mean, if you're gonna purposely lose your mind, you want to get it back some day. Don't you? Okay, maybe not.
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Death Is only the easy way out if you are the one who dies.
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I hate this feeling. Like I'm here, but I'm not. Like someone cares. But they don't. Like I belong somewhere else, anywhere but here, and escape lies just past that snowy window, cool and crisp as the February air.
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Words have power. The power to soothe. The power to skewer someone through the heart. The power to render someone speechless.
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I never went to Albuquerque expecting to find love. I thought it had found me there, followed me home. I never came home expecting to lose love in the space of one brief telephone call. Is it always so short-lived?
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My happiest memories have no place in the past they are those I have yet to create.
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When the door to love opens, The window to control closes.
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Something stirred beneath my skin, some being inside I'd only suspected existed, demon or angel, I couldn't say.
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Not even Carol knows firsthand how it feels to be hurt in such a way by someone who's supposed to protect you
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