Quote

And he left. I watched him walk out – he didn’t say good-bye, he didn’t even look back. It scared me, how easy it was for him to do that.

Sara Zarr

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Sara Zarr
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: October 3
Novelist
Writer
Cleveland
Ohio
Good
Walks
Easy
Left
Didn
Back
Bye
Look
Watched
Looks
Scared
Even
Walk

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I had them all fooled into believing I was normal and well-adjusted, a rock of sensibility who could always be counted on to have a positive attitude.
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Sometimes rescue comes to you. It just shows up, and you do nothing. Maybe you deserve it, maybe you don't. But be ready, when it comes, to decide if you will take the outstretched hand and let it pull you ashore.
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. . .There are certain people who come into your life, and leave a mark. . . Their place in your heart is tender a bruise of longing, a pulse of unfinished business. Just hearing their names pushes and pulls at you in a hundred ways, and when you try to define those hundred ways, describe them even to yourself, words are useless.
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I wonder how you're supposed to know the exact moment when there's no more hope.
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I didn't 'decide' to write YA, per se. But every time I thought of a story, it featured characters 15, 16, 17.
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A know a place called New Beginnings, but I don't think it works quite like that. You can't just erase everything that came before.
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No one measures a life in weeks and days. You measure life in years and by the things that happen to you.
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I don't like to do too much psychological research because it might turn a character into a patchwork.
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It's a jagged thing in my throat, how much I miss her.
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My whole life has been one big broken promise.
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Life was mostly made up of things you couldn’t control, full of surprises, and they weren’t always good. Life wasn’t what you made it. You were what life made you.
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You were never what I wanted to forget.
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I'm still going to love you, always. And in the rock-paper-scissors of life, love is rock. fear, anger, everthing else...no contest.
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This was a memory I wanted to keep, whole, and recall again and again. When I was fifty years old I wanted to remember this moment on the porch, holding hands with Cameron while he shared himself with me. I didn’t want it to be something on the fringes of my memory like so many other things about Cameron and myself.
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Katy skipped over, her low-rise jeans threatening to fall off her skinny hips. With some girls, that was a sexy look. With Katy, it made you nervous.
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I do have a little bit more confidence in - or at least familiarity with - my process. For example, when it feels like it's going badly or that I'm lost, I know I'll eventually find my way because I've been through it before. But writing itself is still hard.
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There's a lot that is awful. That's the struggle of getting old. To make sure you don't let what's hard...obscure the beauty.
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I don’t want these memories to become slippery, to just disappear into the thin air of life the way most things seem to. I want them to stick – even the bad ones – so I repeat them often.
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When the reader and one narrator know something the other narrator does not, the opportunities for suspense and plot development and the shifting of reader sympathies get really interesting.
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Forgetting isn't enough. You can paddle away from the memories and think they are gone. But they will keep floating back, again and again and agian. They circle you, like sharks. Until, unless, something, someone? Can do more than just cover the wound.
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