Quote

I scan the room. Catherine is writing quickly, her light brown hair falling over her face. She is left-handed, and because she writes in pencil her left arm is silver from wrist to elbow.

Sara Gruen

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Sara Gruen
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: January 1
Author
Novelist
Writer
Vancouver
British Columbia
Fall
Falling
Elbows
Left
Quickly
Wrists
Light
Arms
Pencil
Writing
Room
Pencils
Rooms
Handed
Scan
Hair
Writes
Catherine
Face
Silver
Elbow
Faces
Brown
Wrist

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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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Even as your body betrays you, your mind denies it.
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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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Gorillas are in danger of being wiped out by the Ebola virus. I feel like we have limited time to get to know them and understand them and they're going to disappear - that's terrifically sad. Wouldn't it be great if we could stop that?
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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.
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Must protect my little pockets of happiness.
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Although there are times I'd give anything to have her back, I'm glad she went first. Losing her was like being cleft down the middle. It was the moment it all ended for me, and I wouldn't have wanted her to go through that.
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Don't want to get tipsy and break a hip.
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Being the survivor stinks.
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They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.
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Although, pretending not to notice is almost worse than noticing.
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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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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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...if you expect people to try to do things your way, you're going to have to give some hints as to what that way is.
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It's as though I've been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here
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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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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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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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