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echo, the death of a sound that had nowhere to go but to come back.

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
Echo
Echoes
Nowhere
Sound
Death
Back
Come

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She was not used to being cruel, but he had taught her how.
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Women always put men first. That's how everything got so screwed up.
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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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Dawn tinted the darkness like water ink.
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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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I use my fiction to explore my own unconscious issues. I usually don't even know what's going on with me until I'm writing.
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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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I thought how tenuous the links were between mother and children between friends family things you think are eternal. Everything could be lost more easily than anyone could imagine.
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I felt suddenly cruel, like I´d told dmall children there was no tooth fairy, that it was just their Mom sneaking into their room after they went to bed.
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I emitted some civetlike female stink, a distinct perfume of sexual wanting, that he had followed to find me here in the dark.
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I felt like an undeveloped photograph that he was printing, my image rising to the surface under his gaze.
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I almost said, you're not broken, you're just going through something. But i couldn't. She knew. There was something terribly wrong with her, all the way inside. She was like a big diamond with a dead spot in the middle. I was supposed to breathe life into that dead spot, but it hadn't worked.
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My hatred gives me strength.
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Do you ever want to go home?' I asked Paul. He brushed an ash from my face. 'It's the century of the displaced person,' he said. 'You can never go home.
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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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What can she possibly teach you, twenty seven names for tears?
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Whenever she turned her steep focus to me, I felt the warmth that flowers must feel when they bloom through the snow, under the first concentrated rays of the sun.
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You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
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How can I shed tears for a man I should never have allowed to touch me in any way?
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If I get ideas independently of the act of writing, they never really fit. So for me, there's no hanging out, waiting for inspiration.
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