Quote

I didn’t feel anything but a bone-deep weariness. Like I was suddenly a hundred years old, and I knew at that moment I would have to live a hundred more years, carrying my grief around like a backpack full of stones.

Jennifer Weiner

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Jennifer Weiner
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: March 28
Author
Film Producer
Journalist
Novelist
Writer
DeRidder
Louisiana
Like
Didn
Stones
Around
Grief
Anything
Hundred
Backpack
Live
Deep
Weariness
Feel
Knew
Bone
Feels
Full
Carrying
Years
Moment
Bones
Would
Moments
Suddenly

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Things happen, and you can't make them unhappen. You don't get do-overs, you can't roll back the clock, and the only thing you can change, and the only thing it does any good to worry about, is how you let them affect you.
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I'm not cut out to be a famous person I can't do my hair and makeup well enough.
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And then he left, and came back, and our lives fell apart, like a well-loved book that you’d read and read again, until one night you picked it up to read yourself to sleep and the binding collapsed, sending dozens of pages spiraling toward the floor.
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Head's all empty, I don't care,' he'd sing to me, quoting the Grateful Dead, and I'd force a smile, thinking that my head was never empty and that if it ever was, you could be darn sure I'd care.
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I decided.. that I could go on being scared forever, that I could keep walking, that I could carry my rage around, hot and heavy in my chest forever. But maybe there was another way. You have everything you need, my mother had told me. And maybe all I needed was the courage to admit that what I needed was someone to lean on.
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I'm not in charge of my life.
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I could have told him that nothing was safe and that no matter how careful you were and how hard you tried, there were still accidents, hidden traps, and snares. You could get killed on an airplane or crossing the street. Your marriage could fall apart when you weren't looking your husband could lose his job our baby could get sick or die.
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Maybe it was inertia -or worse, fear- that was keeping me in the same place.
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I struggle with the fact that men's popular fiction is talked about differently. Books like mine don't get as many reviews and probably won't win any prizes, but they entertain the pants off of hundreds of thousands of women.
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There are a lot of women like me in the world, and we rarely get to see ourselves.
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Women are far and away the bigger consumers of fiction than men, but men are still far and away the more reviewed, the more critically esteemed, the more respected. That can get frustrating.
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I like blogs. they're good times.
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My book sales make 'real writers' possible.
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My publisher feels that my readers are loyal to the voice of my stories, the characters I'm creating.
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She hated the implied familiarity when customers requested things from her by name.
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Do I want to spend my diminished working hours writing or answering email? Now I have somebody read through them. If someone has something really important to tell me I write back. Otherwise they get the auto reply.
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Whenever people with money have power over people with less money, you have the potential for exploitation.
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Maybe love was a myth anyhow, a brew of hormones and fantasy, evolution's way of getting men and women together long enough for them to procreate,back in the day when girls got pregnant at twelve, were pregnant or nursing for the next twenty years, and were dead of the plague by forty.
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I think it's a very old and deep-seated double standard that holds that when a man writes about family and feelings, it's literature with a capital L, but when a woman considers the same topics, it's romance, or a beach book - in short, it's something unworthy of a serious critic's attention.
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This is motherhood for you,' said my own mother. 'Going through life with your heart outside your body.
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