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The language of solace, and comets, and the girls we all become, in the end.

Sarah Dessen

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Sarah Dessen
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: June 6
Novelist
Writer
Evanston
Illinois
Ends
Become
Comets
Solace
Girls
Language
Girl

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I wondered which was harder, in the end. The act of telling, or who you told it to. Or maybe if, when you finally got it out, the story was really all that mattered.
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I didn't want to talk about what happened, so it seemed safest not to talk at all.
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Just me and the future, finally together. Now there was a happy ending I could believe in.
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It was as familiar to me as a song I'd been hearing my whole life, covered by various people but the basic tune the same.
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It all depends on how you choose to live it. It's like forever, always changing.
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So I left him there alone to watch history repeat the same events retold again and again on his own.
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After everything that happened, how could I miss him? But I did, I did.
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And that was as far as he got before i heard it. The thumping of footsteps, running up the lawn toward me: It seemed like I could hear it through the grass, like leaning your ear to a railroad track and feeling the train coming, miles away. As the noise got closer I could hear ragged breaths, and then a voice. It was my mother.
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How weird that must be, to stay the same as everyone else changes.
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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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I wasn't very happy in high school: it was a confusing and sort of sad time for me.
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It was hard to remember what the yard had looked like even twelve hours before, undisturbed and pristine. Like it takes so little to change something, but to make you forget the way it once was, as well.
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You don't have to make things harder then they have to be just to prove a point.
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Says the girl with no thyme.
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This was always the problem with my mother and me, I suddenly realized. There were so many things we thought we agreed on, but anythign can have two meanings. Like sides of a coin, it just matters how it falls.
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call it chicken salad
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It was always late at night, when everything and everyone else was quiet, that those voices would rise like ghosts, soft and haunting, filling your mind until sleep finally came.
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He's getting dumped. And he doesn't even know it yet. He's probably eating a cheeseburger or flossing or picking up his dry cleaning, and he has no idea. No inkling.
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As if it didnt matter what was on, but instead how hard i was listening.
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You get what you give, but also what you're willing to take. The night before, I'd offered up my hand. Now, if I held on, there was no telling what it was possible to recieve in return.
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