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Everyone should remember being born. It doesn't seem fair that we only remember dying.

Lauren DeStefano

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Lauren DeStefano
Age: 40
Born: 1984
Born: October 13
Author
Novelist
Connecticut
United States
Fair
Dying
Seem
Everyone
Born
Doesn
Seems
Remember
Fairs

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Linden just wants to protect her, is what I want to say. She's all he has. I left him. I'm at arms reach, but I've left him.
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There's a sort of dead passion in him. A spark that, had he more years to live, would be a wildfire.
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It doesn't matter how much his mother loves him love is not enough to keep any of us alive.
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We writers are resilient souls.
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I'll tell you something about true love. There's no science to it. It's as natural as the sky.
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Dystopian, by definition, promises a darker story.
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I don't dare touch her. Loss is a knowledge I'm sorry to have. Perhaps the only thing worse than experiencing it, is watching it replay anew in someone else--all the awful stages picking up like a chorus that has to be sung.
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Poor kid,' Jenna says, and rolls her eyes toward me for a moment. Then she returns to her book. 'She doesn't even understand what kind of place this is.
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She would do anything, anything to belong to his son after a lifetime of belonging to no one at all.
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It was a terrible decision, and I confess I'd make it again.
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When I am writing anything in general, I just want to tell the story that exists in my head I don't try to write a parable or make a point.
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There is a dark place calling to me, but I will not go just yet. I know I can't return from it.
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There was a desperate undercurrent to our marriage--a feeling of being in a dream from which I couldn't seem to awaken. A nagging sense that my life, laid out so neatly like the clothes Deirdre left on my divan, was no longer my own.
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There's a world out there that nobody has bothered to promise her.
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She smiles at our husband as she moves, and he blushes, overcome by her beauty. But I know what her smile really means...Her smile is her revenge.
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Ah, love. That’s what the world has lost. There’s no more love, only the illusion of it.
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I lost everyone I loved, I tell him. I wait for him to look at me, and then I add, The day I met you.
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I want to make the world into something better so that he can be okay.
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Childhood is a long, long road, from which that dark whispering forest of death seems an impossible destination.
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