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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.

Jay Asher

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Jay Asher
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: September 30
Novelist
Writer
Arcadia
California
Love
Actually
Hits
Others
Findings
Become
Finding
Certain
Figure
May
Figures
Book
Trouble
Trying
Books
Good
Audience

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You don’t know what goes on in anyone’s life but your own. And when you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re not messing with just that part. Unfortunately, you can’t be that precise and selective. When you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re messing with their entire life. Everything. . . affects everything.
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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 here he is again, yet things feel like they'll never be as easy between us as they once were.
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We both laugh. And it feels good. A release. Like laughing at a funeral. Maybe inappropriate, but definitely needed.
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That’s when I said it. That’s when I whispered to her, “I’m so sorry.” Because inside, I felt so happy and sad at the same time. Sad that it took me so long to get there. But happy that we got there together.
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I want to look back. To look over my shoulder and see the Stop sign with huge reflective letters, pleading with Hannah. Stop!
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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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I miss video games where the jump-kick was the trickiest combo to master.
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Because our lies matched. It was a sign.
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Sometimes we have thoughts that even we don't understand. Thoughts that aren't even true—that aren't really how we feel—but they're running through our heads anyway because they're interesting to think about.
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I could picture life—school and everything else—continuing on without me. But I could not picture my funeral. Not at all. Mostly because I couldn’t imagine who would attend or what they would say.
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He looks out into the empty street, allowing me to sit in his car and just miss her. To miss her each time I pull in a breath of air. To miss her with a heart that feels so cold by itself, but warm when thoughts of her flow through me.
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If time was a string connecting all of your stories, that party would be the point where everything knots up. And that knot keeps growing and growing, getting more and more tangled, dragging the rest of your stories into it.
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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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I want to collapse. I want to fall on the sidewalk right there and drag myself to the ivy.
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Stories about sensitive issues like sex, drugs or sexual assault, suicide and teen drinking, are often censored because people just don't want to talk about those things. It's not that these things don't happen, but when they're shared in a fictional setting, for some reason they make some people uncomfortable.
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But I need to wake up somehow. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s best to get through the day half-asleep. Maybe that’s the only way to get through today.
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You can't go back to how things were. How you thought they were. All you really have is...now.
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I take a slow sip of lukewarm coffee, reopen the book, and read the words scribbled in red ink near the top: Everyone needs an olly-olly-oxen-free.
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A week went by and nothing. But eventually, as they always will, the rumors reached me. And everyone knows you can't disprove a rumor.
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