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Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work, but important.

Sara Gruen

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Sara Gruen
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: January 1
Author
Novelist
Writer
Vancouver
British Columbia
Aging
Keeping
Appearance
Hard
Important
Work
Marbles
Marble

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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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Honey, I plan to marry you the moment the ink is dry on that death certificate.
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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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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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Do you have any idea how much an elephant drinks?
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The only thing that makes me crazier than writing is not writing.
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Life is the most spectacular show on earth.
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They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.
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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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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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Sometimes I think if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a woman, I'd choose the corn.
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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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I just can't. I'm married. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it.
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When two people are meant to be together, they will be together. It's fate.
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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 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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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 have to convince myself that this is not a pointless life, even the body is telling me so.
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Being the survivor stinks.
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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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