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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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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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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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Although, pretending not to notice is almost worse than noticing.
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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 hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page.
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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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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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You do right by me, I'll show you a life most suckers can't even dream of.
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They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.
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Why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?
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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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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 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.
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Don't want to get tipsy and break a hip.
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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 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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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 tend not to think about the reading public at all, or the business, when I'm writing.
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