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I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin. I want.

Sara Gruen

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Sara Gruen
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: January 1
Author
Novelist
Writer
Vancouver
British Columbia
Like
Skin
Skins
Encased
Walk
Savoring
Rest
Toast
Walks
Toasts
Days
Melt
Around
Absorb
Love
Butter

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I don't like outlining, because books are organic things. Sometimes a book doesn't want to be written in a certain way.
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I'm truly grateful for my microwave, which allows me to easily clarify butter, steam vegetables, and - when I am really lazy - feed my three kids in less than five minutes.
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I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page.
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I stroke her lightly, memorizing her body. I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin. I lie motionless, savoring the feeling of her body against mine. I'm afraid to breathe in case I break the spell.
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You do right by me, I'll show you a life most suckers can't even dream of.
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But it all zipped by. One minute Marlena and I were up to our eyeballs, and the next thing we knew the kids were borrowing the car and fleeing the coop for college. And now, here I am. In my nineties and alone.
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I am further back, surrounded on all sides by wailing men, their faces shiny with tears. Uncle Al promised three dollars and a bottle of Canadian whiskey to the man who puts on the best show. You've never seen such grief-- even the dogs were howling.
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I tend not to think about the reading public at all, or the business, when I'm writing.
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Must protect my little pockets of happiness.
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I look after those who look after me. He smacks his lips, stares at me, and adds, I also look after those who don't. - Sara Gruen (Water for Elephants)
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Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work, but important.
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How is it that everyone on this train has so much alcohol? We always head to Canada at the beginning of the season, she says taking her seat again. Their laws are much more civilized. Cheers.
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Don't want to get tipsy and break a hip.
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I have to convince myself that this is not a pointless life, even the body is telling me so.
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I just can't. I'm married. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it.
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Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes I can't find myself any more. When did I stop being me?
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I roll onto my side and stare out the venetian blinds at the blue sky beyond. After a few minutes I'm lulled into a sort of peace. The sky, the sky--same as it always was.
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We traveled for two weeks with a pickled hippo.
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The thought has cheered me, and I'd like to hang onto that. Must protect my little pockets of happiness.
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He stares at me, and then leans back in his chair. He's ill, Jacob. I say nothing. He's a paragon schnitzophonic. He's what?! Paragon schnitzophonic, repeats Uncle Al. You mean paranoid schizophrenic? Sure. Whatever. But the bottom line is he's mad as a hatter.
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