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Must protect my little pockets of happiness.

Sara Gruen

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Sara Gruen
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: January 1
Author
Novelist
Writer
Vancouver
British Columbia
Must
Pockets
Protect
Happiness
Littles
Little

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You work hard on a book and throw it out there and then it's beyond your control.
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It's as though I've been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here
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They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.
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Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work, but important.
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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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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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Although, pretending not to notice is almost worse than noticing.
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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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When two people are meant to be together, they will be together. It's fate.
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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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Honey, I plan to marry you the moment the ink is dry on that death certificate.
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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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Don't want to get tipsy and break a hip.
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The only thing that makes me crazier than writing is not writing.
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I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page.
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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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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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I just can't. I'm married. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it.
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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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The thought has cheered me, and I'd like to hang onto that. Must protect my little pockets of happiness.
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