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You missed a lot of heartache, sure. But David, you missed a lot of joy.

Kim Edwards

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Kim Edwards
Age: 66
Born: 1958
Born: May 4
Author
Novelist
Writer
Killeen
Texas
Father
Heartache
David
Missed
Joy
Sure

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Each letter has a shape, she told them, one shape in the world and no other, and it is your responsibility to make it perfect.
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Then she had been a fiancee, a young wife, and a mother, and she had discovered that these words were far too small ever to contain the experience.
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Away from the bright motion of the party, she carried her sadness like a dark stone clenched in her palm.
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He wished he had some kind of X-ray vision for the human heart.
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In some deep place in her heart, Caroline had kept alive the silly romantic notion that somehow David Henry had once known her as no one else ever could. But it was not true. He had never even glimpsed her.
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Either things grow and change or they die.
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She saw herself moving through another life, an exotic, difficult, satisfying life.
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Twin threads ran through her: fear and excitement.
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The thing is, I used to like that: feeling special because I knew something no one else did. It's a kind of power, isn't it, knowing a secret? But lately I don't like it so much, knowing this. It's not really mine to know, is it?
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Writing is always a process of discovery—I never know the end, or even the events on the next page, until they happen. There’s a constant interplay between the imagining and shaping of the story.
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...bleak territory of the heart.
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It seemed there was no end at all to the lies a person could tell, once she got started.
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After all these years, I feel so free. Who knows where I might fly?
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It's good to be in love.
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Its impossible to control the reception of your work - the only thing you can control is the experience of writing itself, and the work you create.
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Once, this whole world had been hidden beneath a shallow sea.
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She had died at age twelve, and by now she was nothing but the memory of love-- nothing, now, but bones.
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It wasn't right. He knew that, but it was like falling: once you started you couldn't stop until something stopped you.
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Grief, it seemed, was a physical place.
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