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Believe it or not, I sold my first novel, Crank, with only seventy-five pages complete. It was in verse then, and it was hard-hitting then.

Ellen Hopkins

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Ellen Hopkins
Age: 69
Born: 1955
Born: March 26
Novelist
Writer
Long Beach
California
Ellen Louise Hopkins
Five
Verse
Firsts
Seventies
First
Verses
Hard
Sold
Believe
Hitting
Complete
Pages
Crank
Novel
Seventy

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The Screaming flashed me back to a time when mom and dad were still together if you could call miles apart together.
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How could I share the way my heart was breaking when my confessor didn’t believe
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Have to Find ...life ...is ...a— ...gamble ...after ...all.
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Before you, I believed love was making love. Waiting only makes me love you more.
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Love is Chocolate The unprocessed kind. Dark. Bitter. But always with the promise of sweet perfection. All it takes is sugar- that certain someone's kiss, flavored with possibility. If Dani has taught me anything, it's that life is brimming with possibilities. Every single day brings choices.
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Anger requires energy, something I don't dare waste on what cannot be altered.
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Paradise A concept embraced by almost every culture. A land of peace and harmony. Some say it doesn't belong to the earth, that there is no Shangri-la, no utopian wilderness for the living.
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Perfect? How can you define a word without concrete meaning?
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Sorry. But I don't need some money-grubbing preacher defining my relationship with God.
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The problem with falling in love is falling back out of it again, usually because you've fallen in love with a lie. That happens as often as not.
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Once ...Why ...lie? ...when ...truth is ...the easier path
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Love without trust is nothing more than infatuation.
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Everyone's afraid of everybody else...maybe because we're all afraid of ourselves.
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Red and raw like my brain, unable to shut down, thoughts crashing like electrons orbiting a nucleus of deuling emotions.
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Now that I have opened that bottle of memories they're pouring out like wine, crimson and bittersweet.
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Clear. Cold. Empty. Like how I feel right now. Love is strange. One minute you’re jungle fever. The next you’re Artic winter.
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Sometimes I'm not so sure just who I am either.
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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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Why doesn't love come with an owner's manual?
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I know I can't stay here forever
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