Quote

I closed my eyes to watch tiny dancers like jeweled birds cross the dark screen of my eyelids.

Janet Fitch

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Janet Fitch
Age: 68
Born: 1955
Born: November 9
Author
Journalist
Novelist
University Teacher
Writer
LA
California
Janet Elizabeth Fitch
Tiny
Dancers
Bird
Dancer
Watches
Closed
Watch
Birds
Eyes
Screen
Dark
Screens
Eye
Cross
Like
Crosses
Eyelids

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Death like a lover, caressing him, promising him peace, running its fingers through his hair, its tongue in his ear. She put her own two fingers in her mouth. Im so sorry. And pulled the trigger
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A dependent clause (a sentence fragment set off by commas, dontcha know) helps you explore your story by moving you deeper into the sentence. It allows you to stop and think harder about what you've already written. Often the story you're looking for is inside the sentence. The dependent clause helps you uncover it.
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I could hear the icy winds of Sweden, but he didn't seem to feel the chill.
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Her fingers moved among barnacles and mussels, blue-black, sharp-edged. Neon red starfish were limp Dalis on the rocks, surrounded by bouquets of stinging anemones and purple bursts of spiny sea urchins.
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That was what she really wanted. To forget so thoroughly she'd never have another memory again, the bitter so bitter you gave up the sweet.
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This is what happens when you fall in love. You're looking at a natural disaster.
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she’s not as pretty as you,” I said “But she’s a simpler girl,” my mother whispered.
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The best you'll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.
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I understood why she did it. At that moment I knew why people tagged graffiti on the walls of neat little houses and scratched the paint on new cars and beat up well-tended children. It was only natural to want to destroy something you could never have.
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His voice was cloves and nightingales, it took us to spice markets in the Celebs, we drifted with him on a houseboat beyond the Coral Sea. We were like cobras following a reed flute.
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without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.
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Who was I, really? I was the sole occupant of my mother's totalitarian state, my own personal history rewritten to fit the story she was telling that day. There were so many missing pieces. I was starting to find some of them, working my way upriver, collecting a secret cache of broken memories in a shoebox.
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How easy I was. Like a limpet I attached myself to anything, anyone who showed me the least attention.
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I felt like time was a great sea, and I was floating on the back of a turtle, and no sails broke the horizon.
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Memory is the fourth dimension to any landscape.
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A cliché is like a coin that has been handled too much. Once language has been overly handled, it no longer leaves a clear imprint.
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She’s never where she is,' I said. 'She’s only inside her head.
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Pick a better verb. Most people use twenty verbs to describe everything from a run in their stocking to the explosion of an A-bomb.
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Beauty was empty as a gourd, vain as a parakeet. But it had power. It smelled of musk and oranges and made you close your eyes in a prayer.
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I imagined my soul taking in these words like silicated water in the Petrified Forest, turning my wood to patterned agate. I liked it when my mother shaped me this way. I thought clay must feel happy in the good potter's hand.
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