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It's still a memory worth having, even if it's not exactly what you imagined.

Sarah Dessen

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Sarah Dessen
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: June 6
Novelist
Writer
Evanston
Illinois
Memories
Stills
Still
Even
Imagined
Memory
Exactly
Worth

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I seriously doubt that the Santa police do an underwear check. -Cora
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Behind the camera, I was invisible. When I lifted it up to my eye it was like I crawled into the lens, losing myself there. and everything else fell away.
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I was born in 1970 in Illinois, but all the life I remember I've spent in Chapel Hill, N.C.
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You should never be surprised when someone treats you with respect, you should expect it.
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Grieving doesn't make you imperfect. It makes you human.
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It was kind of soothing, these sounds of lives being lived all around me, for better or for worse. And there I was, in the middle of them all, newly reborn and still waiting for mine to begin.
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Fine...a word that you said when someone asked how you were but didn't really care to know the truth.
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I think as a writer one of the benefits is that you can put things that you're interested in into your books. I always have put a lot of food and restaurants because I was a waitress and I love to eat.
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n the dark everyone felt the same: the edges blurred. When I think of myself then, what I was like two years ago, I feel like a wound in a bad place, prone to be bumped on corners or edges. Never able to heal.
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The truth was, I wasn't sure. But I wanted to keep believing people could change, and it was certainly easier to do so when you were in the midst of it.
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She was just a shell of her former self, functioning and talking but hardly alive.
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There are some things in this world you rely on, like a sure bet. And when they let you down, shifting from where you've carefully placed them, it shakes your faith, right where you stand.
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Rogerson, I asked him sweetly as we sat watching a video in the pool house, where would I find the pelagic zone? In the open sea, he said. Now shut up and eat your Junior Mints.
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She bought seeds and raided nurseries and mulched and composted and spent full days with her hands full of earth, coaxing life our of the dry, dull grass my father had spent years pushing a mower over.
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If this was my instinct talking, I didn‟t want to hear what it was saying.
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I couldn't tell her. I couldn't tell anyone. As long as I didn't say it aloud, it wasn't real.
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…You don’t want the best of times to be just one thing, forever. You have to have a lot of bests of times, each one topping the last. You know?
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But even more so, it reminded me that this was all really happening. Stanford. The end of the summer. The beginning of my real life. It was no longer just creeping up, peeking over the horizon, but instead lingering in plain sight.
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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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I'd been running for years: there was nothing scarier, to me, than to just be still with someone. And yet, there on that dark road, going home, I was.
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