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It was my fifth grade teacher who introduced the idea that writing could be more than a hobby for me.

Lauren DeStefano

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Lauren DeStefano
Age: 39
Born: 1984
Born: October 13
Author
Novelist
Connecticut
United States
Grade
Grades
Teacher
Idea
Ideas
Hobby
Writing
Introduced
Hobbies
Fifth

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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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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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who once had dreams of saving the world, now laughs at anyone who tries.
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The thing about hope is that it doesn't go away even when it serves no purpose.
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Fall has always been my favorite season. The time when everything bursts with its last beauty, as if nature had been saving up all year for the grand finale.
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She's been conned, ruined, left for dead, and she's not going to forgive any of it. She will soldier on, if only out of spite.
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Life is much different from the days when there were lilies in my mother’s garden, and all my secrets fit into a paper cup.
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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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You can try to please everyone and risk accomplishing nothing, or go for your dreams and risk pissing a few people off.
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I stare at her collarbone that's framed with lace, the hollow of her throat, her shoulders that rise with each rise with the weight of her next breath. We're fragile things. Our bones show through our skin. What would any god want with us?
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He looks at me, and I don't know what he sees. I used to think it was Rose. But she's not here with us now, in this room. It's just him and me, and the books. I feel like our lives are in those books. I feel like all the words on the pages are for us.
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Tell freedom I said hello.
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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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There is warmth shooting through my broken body where there should be pain, and I put my arms around the back of his neck and I hold on to him. I hold on because you never know in this place when something good will be taken away.
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I was born into a world that was already dying I belong to it.
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There's a world out there that nobody has bothered to promise her.
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It's the silence I imagine in the rest of the world, the silence of an endless ocean and uninhabitable island, a silence that can be seen from space.
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Hope, that risky, illustrious thing. It should have gone extinct by now, but we keep it alive.
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Set fire to the broken pieces start anew.
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