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When you write a book for publication, you're writing it for other people to read.

Jay Asher

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Jay Asher
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: September 30
Novelist
Writer
Arcadia
California
Book
Writing
People
Publication
Read
Write

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Teens in the '90s had the same basic desires as they do now.
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It was love because it was worth it.
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I left. When I should have stayed.
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I hate not knowing what to believe anymore. I hate not knowing what's real.
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And here he is again, yet things feel like they'll never be as easy between us as they once were.
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I repeat his words in my head. What's going on? What's going on? Oh, well, since you asked, I got a bunch of tapes in the mail today from a girl who killed herself. Apparently, I had something to do with it. I'm not sure what that is, so I was wondering if I could borrow your Walkman to find out. 'Not much,' I say.
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I sat. And I thought. And the more I thought, connecting the events in my life, the more my heart collapsed.
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She wants to believe my excuses so bad. Every time I lie, she wants to believe me so much.
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I don't know exactly what it is, but it looks like interconnected websites where people show their photos and write about everything going on in their lives, like whether they found a parking spot or what they ate for breakfast. But why? Josh asks.
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If my love were an ocean, there would be no more land. If my love were a desert, you would see only sand. If my love were a star- late at night, only light. And if my love could grow wings, I'd be soaring in flight.
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Do you remember the last thing you said to me? The last thing you did to me? And what was the last thing I said to you? Because trust me when I said it I knew it was the last thing I’d ever say.
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And at some point, the struggle becomes too much-too tiring-and you consider letting go. Allowing tragedy... or whatever... to happen.
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And as I stood there in the hallway―alone―trying to understand what had just happened and why, I realized the truth: I wasn't worth an explanation―not even a reaction. Not in your eyes.
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You don't know what goes on in anyone's life but your own.
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I wanted people to trust me, despite anything they'd heard. And more than that, I wanted them to know me. Not the stuff they thought they knew about me. No, the real me. I wanted them to get past the rumors. To see beyond the relationships I once had, or maybe still had but that they didn't agree with.
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What you don't understand, you can make mean anything.
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Everything about it was false. Right then, in that office, with the realization that no one knew the truth about my life, my thoughts about the world were shaken.
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Actually, I love trying to figure out why certain books become hits while others, which may be just as good, have trouble finding an audience.
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If I had a chance with him, I missed it. No, I didn't miss it. I threw it away.
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And what about you-the rest of you-did you notice the scars you left behind? No. Probably not. Because most of them can't be seen with the naked eye.
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