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And for one second, it was like I could feel the timing clicking together, finally pieces falling into place.
Sarah Dessen
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Sarah Dessen
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: June 6
Novelist
Writer
Evanston
Illinois
Fall
Place
Clicking
Together
Lullaby
Feel
Timing
Feels
Falling
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Finally
Second
Pieces
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I knew this feeling, the 2 a.m. loneliness that I'd practically invented.
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I mean, it's not surprising, really. Once you love something, you always love it in some way. You have to. It's, like, part of you for good.
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When I was a teen, I was never really into the captain of the football team or the student body president. The guys I liked were quirky and different: They listened to music I'd never heard of, never had lunch or gas money, and could always make you laugh.
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Just because someone's pretty, doesn't mean she's decent.
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Wake up, Caitlin, Mr. Lensing had said. But what he didn't understand was that this dreamland was preferable, walking through this life half-sleeping, everything at arm's length or farther away.
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My sister, who never understood most of the things I wanted her to, might have been able to understand what had happened to me in this summer of weddings and beginnings. And she was right. The first boy was always the hardest.
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I turned and looked into the gas station, where Wes was now paying, as the man who'd driven us looked on. That's too bad, I said. It's okay, though, she assured me. Someday I'll show you an extraordinary boy, Macy. They do exist. You just have to believe me. Don't worry, I said. I do.
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There has to be a middle. Without it, nothing can ever truly be whole. Because it is not just the space between, but also what holds everything together.
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You can't love anyone that way more than once in a lifetime. It's too hard and it hurts too much when it ends. The first boy is always the hardest to get over, Haven. It's just the way the world works.
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My dad is a retired Shakespeare professor, my mother a retired classicist. Suffice to say I grew up in a house full of books, where reading was encouraged if not required.
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I wasn't very happy in high school: it was a confusing and sort of sad time for me.
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Times like this it did seem real I was leaving, and even more that my family, and this life, would go on without me. And again I felt that emptiness rise up, but pushed it away. Still, I lingered there, in the doorway, memorizing the noise. The moment. Tucking it away out of sight, to be remembered when I needed it most.
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Fifteen minutes later, a meeting was called. Okay, look. Deb's face was dead serious. I know I just joined this project, and I don't want to offend anyone. But I'm going to be honest. I think you've been going about this all wrong. I'm offended, Dave told her flatly.
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That was the thing. You just never knew. Forever was so many different things. It was always changing, it was what everything was really all about.
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Oh darling, don't be bitter. It's the first instinct of the weak.
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An ending was an ending. No matter how many pages of sentences and paragraphs of great stories led up to it, it would always have the last word.
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Editing is hard but nowhere NEAR as tough as facing that blank page and blinking cursor each day. You're all alone and no one else can do it. At least with editing you have someone in the trench with you.
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It's the same thing,' I told her. 'What is?' 'Being afraid and being alive.' 'No,' she said slowly, and now it was as if she was speaking a language she knew at first I wouldn't understand, the very words, not to mention the concept, being foreign to me. 'Macy, no. It's not.
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In a way, I was almost happy to see her. The worst part of me, out in the flesh. Blinking back at me in the dim light, daring me to call her a name other than my own.
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So finally, I decided that the best response — the safest — was none at all.
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