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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
Catherine
Hair
Writes
Elbow
Face
Silver
Wrist
Faces
Brown
Elbows
Fall
Falling
Wrists
Left
Quickly
Light
Arms
Pencil
Writing
Room
Pencils
Scan
Rooms
Handed
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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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Don't want to get tipsy and break a hip.
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Must protect my little pockets of happiness.
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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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I just can't. I'm married. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it.
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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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I tend not to think about the reading public at all, or the business, when I'm writing.
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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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Do you have any idea how much an elephant drinks?
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Dear God. Not only am I unemployed and homeless, but I also have a pregnant woman, bereaved dog, elephant, and eleven horses to take care of.
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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 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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They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.
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I stare at her for a long moment. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.
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With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.
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Being the survivor stinks.
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Life is the most spectacular show on earth.
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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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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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