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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.

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
Mean
Someday
Would
Hear
Love
Beauty
Whether
Show
Shows
Someone
Ever
Wondered

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It's all I ever really wanted, that revelation. The possibility of fixed stars.
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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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I wandered through the stacks, running my hands along the spines of the books on the shelves, they reminded me of cultured or opinionated guests at a wonderful party, whispering to each other.
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That was what she really wanted. To forget so thoroughly she'd never have another memory again, the bitter so bitter you gave up the sweet.
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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 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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There is no God, there is only what you want.
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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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They dream of men with gentle hands, eloquent with tenderness, fingers that brushed along a cheek, that outlined open lips in the lovers' braille. Hands that sculpted sweetness from sullen flesh, that traced breast and ignited hips, opening, kneading. Flesh becomes bread in the heat of those hands, braided and rising.
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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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Take my advice. Stay away from all broken people.
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Dawn tinted the darkness like water ink.
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What is real is always worth it.
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Depression, suffering and anger are all part of being human.
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A womans mistakes are different from a girls
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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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How easy I was. Like a limpet I attached myself to anything, anyone who showed me the least attention.
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What can she possibly teach you, twenty seven names for tears?
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You must find a boy your own age. Someone mild and beautiful to be your lover. Someone who will tremble for your touch, offer you a marguerite by its long stem with his eyes lowered. Someone whose fingers are a poem.
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Once you get below the floor of our personal identities, we're all connected. Perhaps that's why we can move into others' lives.
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