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without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.

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
Past
Without
Life
Scars
Scar
Wounds
Face
Faces

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My hatred gives me strength.
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Inside every human being, there is unlimited time and space.
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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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I was always mortified.Didn't they know they were tying thier mothers to the ground? Weren't chains ashamed of their prisoners?
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It's not that he was going nowhere, it's that he'd already arrived.
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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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I'm incredibly restless. I read a lot of poetry. I also find myself reading the first 20 pages of everything, looking for something. And you know what? I'm usually looking for the book I'm writing. And it's not out there!
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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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I wish my life could be like that, knotted up so that even if something broke, the whole thing wouldn't come apart.
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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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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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Memory is the fourth dimension to any landscape.
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I imagined my soul taking in these words like silicated water in the Petrified Forest, turning my wood to patterned agate. I liked it when my mother shaped me this way. I thought clay must feel happy in the good potter's hand.
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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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She was not used to being cruel, but he had taught her how.
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I wondered where he was now whether I would ever hear him again. Whether someone would love him, someday show him what beauty mean't.
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Depression, suffering and anger are all part of being human.
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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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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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Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.
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