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They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.

Sara Gruen

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Sara Gruen
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: January 1
Author
Novelist
Writer
Vancouver
British Columbia
Horses
Fats
Horse
Grew
Happy
Matter
Children

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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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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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When two people are meant to be together, they will be together. It's fate.
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Even as your body betrays you, your mind denies it.
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Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work, but important.
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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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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 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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You do right by me, I'll show you a life most suckers can't even dream of.
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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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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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Don't want to get tipsy and break a hip.
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I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page.
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Jacob: I've never seen so much manure. Wade: Baggage stock horses. They pack'em in 27 a car. Jacob: how do you stand the smell? Wade: what smell?
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Must protect my little pockets of happiness.
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It's as though I've been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here
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Why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?
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The only thing that makes me crazier than writing is not writing.
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Although, pretending not to notice is almost worse than noticing.
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