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I couldn't imagine owning beauty like my mothers. I wouldn't dare.

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
Wouldn
Imagine
Beauty
Mother
Owning
Like
Mothers
Dare
Mom
Couldn

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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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How can I shed tears for a man I should never have allowed to touch me in any way?
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Girls were born knowing how destructive the truth could be. They learned to hold it in, tamp it down, like gunpowder in an old fashioned gun. Then it exploded in your face on a November day in the rain.
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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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The sound of her laughter was sticky as sap, the smell of night-blooming jasmine soft as a milk bath.
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Now I wish she'd never broken any of her rules. I understood why she held to them so hard. Once you broke the first one, they all broke, one by one, like firecrackers exploding in your face in a parking lot on the Fourth of July.
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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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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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If sinners where so unhappy, why would they prefer their suffering? But now I knew why. Without my wounds, who was I?
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Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.
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She was not used to being cruel, but he had taught her how.
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What is real is always worth it.
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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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A cliche is everything you've ever heard of.
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Panic was the worst thing. When you panicked, you couldn't see possibilities. Then came despair.
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Being in the library is so addictive for me that I really have to exercise self-control so I can get some writing done at home.
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She would be half a planet away, floating in a turquoise sea, dancing by moonlight to flamenco guitar.
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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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Appealing to the five senses is the feature that will always set writing apart from the visual media. A good writer will tell us what the world smells like, what the textures are, what the sounds are, what the light looks like, what the weather is.
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Don't hoard the past. Don't cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge.
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