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Grief, it seemed, was a physical place.
Kim Edwards
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Kim Edwards
Age: 66
Born: 1958
Born: May 4
Author
Novelist
Writer
Killeen
Texas
Place
Seemed
Grief
Physical
Father
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Norah watched him, serious and utterly absorbed in his task, overcome by the simple fact of his existence.
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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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A moment was not a single moment at all, but rather an infinite number of different moments, depending on who was seeing things and how.
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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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Twin threads ran through her: fear and excitement.
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Lately, the world felt fragile, like a blown egg, as if it might shatter beneath a careless touch.
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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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She saw herself moving through another life, an exotic, difficult, satisfying life.
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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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It seemed there was no end at all to the lies a person could tell, once she got started.
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After Memory Keepers Daughter, it took me a few months to shut out the world. I really had to turn off the Internet and sort of cloister myself away from the world again and sink into that psychic space to write again.
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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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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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That there were other worlds, invisible, unknown, beyond imagination even, was a revelation to him.
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...bleak territory of the heart.
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You missed a lot of heartache, sure. But David, you missed a lot of joy.
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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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It's good to be in love.
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Either things grow and change or they die.
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