Quote

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.

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
Home
Brushed
Persons
Displaced
Person
Ashes
Ever
Paul
Never
Asked
Century
Face
Faces

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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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The sound of her laughter was sticky as sap, the smell of night-blooming jasmine soft as a milk bath.
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Who are you? the band sang. I tried to remember but I really couldn't say.
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When I start writing, my unconscious, my conflicts, my thoughts all start to come up. So for me, writing is an exploration. I never know how my stories will end.
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A cliche is everything you've ever heard of.
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We have no home, she told me. I am your home.
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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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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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One can bear anything. The pain we cannot bear will kill us outright.
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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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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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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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Find someone who will tremble for your touch, someone whose fingers are a poem.
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Whenever she thought she could not feel more alone, the universe peeled back another layer of darkness.
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And I realized as I walked through the neighborhood how each house could contain a completely different reality. In a single block, there could be fifty seperate worlds. Nobody ever really knew what was going on just next door.
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But I knew one more thing. That people w ho denied who they were or where they had been were in the greatest danger.
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And if there is no god? You act as if there is, and it's the same thing.
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We read so that we can be moved by a new way of looking at things.
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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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Panic was the worst thing. When you panicked, you couldn't see possibilities. Then came despair.
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