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The thought has cheered me, and I'd like to hang onto that. 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
Thought
Littles
Little
Cheered
Must
Pockets
Like
Onto
Hang
Protect
Happiness

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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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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 look after those who look after me. He smacks his lips, stares at me, and adds, I also look after those who don't. - Sara Gruen (Water for Elephants)
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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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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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Being the survivor stinks.
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Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.
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Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work, but important.
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It's as though I've been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here
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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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You work hard on a book and throw it out there and then it's beyond your control.
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Although, pretending not to notice is almost worse than noticing.
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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 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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Why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?
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Must protect my little pockets of happiness.
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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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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 only thing that makes me crazier than writing is not writing.
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