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Too many locks, not enough keys.

Sarah Dessen

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Sarah Dessen
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: June 6
Novelist
Writer
Evanston
Illinois
Many
Life
Locks
Keys
Enough

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funny how a beautiful song could tell such a sad story
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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 think readers are just looking for things that maybe they recognize or can relate to in the books.
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I just can't ever be a free spirit and just relax. When it comes to work, this is good. I'm very disciplined, which with writing is often half the battle, or more. But it also means that if I want to, say, play hooky and chocolate and watch Bravo all afternoon, I feel horribly guilty. I wish I could find a nice balance.
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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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“In Truth,” I said, “there are no rules other than you have to tell the truth.” “How do you win?” he asked. “That,” I said, “is such a boy question.
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I just thought to my self, all of a sudden, that we had something in common. A natural chemistry, if you will. And I had a feeling that something big was going to happen. To both of us. That we were, in fact, meant to be together.
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I wasn’t ready to think about the other yet: that it wasn’t that I wasn’t right for Macon, but that maybe he wasn’t right for me. There was a difference. Even for someone who things didn’t come easy for, someone like me.
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All we had was her room, her stories, and the quiet that settled in as we tried in vain to spread ourselves out and fill the space she'd left behind.
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I would miss Colby, but it wasn't going anywhere. All the more reason why I should.
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Then what are you like, Annabel? he shot back. A liar, like you told me that first day? Come on. That was the biggest lie of 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 wasn't about being happy or unhappy. I just didn't want to be me anymore.
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My books are so tame!
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Your past is always your past. Even if you forget it, it remembers you.
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But the bottom line is that, as humans, we are by nature selfish creatures. The only way we care about anything, really, is by making it about us.
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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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But all the love in the world won't save a sinking ship. You have to either bail or jump overboard.
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That was the hard thing about grief, and the grieving. They spoke another language, and the words we knew always fell short of what we wanted them to say.
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I don't lie. You don't lie, I repeated. That's what I said. Ever. Nope. Sure you don't, I thought.
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