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Her hatred glittered irresistibly. I could see it, the jewel, it was sapphire, it was the cold lakes of Norway.
Janet Fitch
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Janet Fitch
Age: 69
Born: 1955
Born: November 9
Author
Journalist
Novelist
University Teacher
Writer
LA
California
Janet Elizabeth Fitch
Norway
Jewel
Jewels
Lakes
Hatred
Glittered
Cold
Sapphire
Sapphires
Irresistibly
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like a kid kicked out of class. humiliated and free.
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She was not used to being cruel, but he had taught her how.
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To know I was beautiful in his eyes made me beautiful.
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They say drugs are not the answer, but really, what is the question?
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Wasn't that the way it always was? You didn't know, you couldn't tell, you just let it happen... Perhaps they didn't know themselves. Sometimes the line was very fine.
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She laughed so easily when she was happy. But also when she was sad.
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Aquamarines grew with emeralds, Claire told me. But emeralds were fragile and always broke into smaller pieces, while aquamarines were stronger, grew in huge crystals without any trouble, so they weren't worth as much. It was the emerald that didn't break that was the really valuable thing.
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I took the volume to a table, opened its soft, ivory pages... and fell into it as into a pool during dry season.
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You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
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I decided that if I was never going to sell anything as long as I lived, I might as well do what I want to do 'cause then at least I would've done what I wanted to do in life. What's that worth?
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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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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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Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.
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She would buy magic every day of the week. Love me, that face said. I'm so lonely, so desperate. I'll give you whatever you want.
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without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.
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I closed my eyes to watch tiny dancers like jeweled birds cross the dark screen of my eyelids.
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Your protagonist is your reader’s portal into the story. The more observant he or she can be, the more vivid will be the world you’re creating. They don’t have to be super-educated, they just have to be mentally active. Keep them looking, thinking, wondering, remembering.
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The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.
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When I read, I want to be fully transported to another place. I want to feel things, smell things.
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I thought of my mother as Queen Christina, cool and sad, eyes trained on some distant horizon. That was where she belonged, in furs and palaces of rare treasures, fireplaces large enough to roast a reindeer, ships of Swedish maple.
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