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If sinners where so unhappy, why would they prefer their suffering? But now I knew why. Without my wounds, who was I?

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
Knew
Suffering
Without
Would
Sinners
Sinner
Wounds
Prefer
Unhappy

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Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.
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I've been depressed many times in my life. But under it all I'm an optimist.
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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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The story of her life. God gave you everything just to take it away. Just so you knew exactly what you were missing.
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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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We strive for beauty and balance, the sensual over the sentimental.
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What is real is always worth it.
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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'm a fish swimming by...catch me if you want me.
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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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The sound of her laughter was sticky as sap, the smell of night-blooming jasmine soft as a milk bath.
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What was beauty unless you intended to use it, like a hammer, or a key? It was just something for other people to use and admire, or envy, despise. To nail their dreams onto like a picture hanger on a blank wall. And so many girls saying, use me, dream me.
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without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.
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She’s never where she is,' I said. 'She’s only inside her head.
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At every moment, each instrument knew what to play. Its little bit. But none could see the whole thing like this, all at once, only its own part. Just like life. Each person was like a line of music, but nobody knew what the symphony sounded like. Only the conductor had the whole score.
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She was a beautiful woman dragging a crippled foot and I was that foot. I was bricks sewn into the hem of her clothes, I was a steel dress
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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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A cliche 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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A person didn’t need to be beautiful, they just needed to be loved. But I couldn’t help wanting it. If that was the way I could be loved, to be beautiful, I’d take it
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