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She saw herself moving through another life, an exotic, difficult, satisfying life.

Kim Edwards

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Kim Edwards
Age: 66
Born: 1958
Born: May 4
Author
Novelist
Writer
Killeen
Texas
Moving
Difficult
Father
Another
Life
Exotic
Satisfying
Saws

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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'd kept this silence because his own secrets were darker, more hidden, and because he believed that his secrets had created hers.
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Either things grow and change or they die.
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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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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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After all these years, I feel so free. Who knows where I might fly?
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He wished he had some kind of X-ray vision for the human heart.
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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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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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Twin threads ran through her: fear and excitement.
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Photography is all about secrets... The secrets we all have and will never tell.
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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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It's good to be in love.
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Grief, it seemed, was a physical place.
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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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The city of Pittsburgh gleaming suddenly before her . . . so startling in its vastness and its beauty that she had gasped and slowed, afraid of losing control of the car
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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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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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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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His love for her was so deeply woven with resentment that he could not untangle the two.
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