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Because maybe, the best of times were yet to come. You never knew.

Sarah Dessen

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Sarah Dessen
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: June 6
Novelist
Writer
Evanston
Illinois
Knew
Maybe
Times
Best
Come
Never

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Lifestyle is an terrible, unpleasant put to not have a very finest buddy.
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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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A thump thump thump noise that was so unfamiliar, and yet I couldn't quite place it. But I knew it. It was - Mmm-hmmm, Monica murmured, just as Wes came view into the path. He was running, his pace quick and steady. He was in shorts, his shirt off, staring ahead as he passed. His back was tan and gleaming with sweat.
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Grieving doesn't make you imperfect. It makes you human.
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I think having a good agent is key. I've been with mine for ten years now, and she's very honest with me. There are a lot of times I've sent her books that were not so good because I was tired of writing, or panicked about money, and she's told me flat out, You don't want this to be your next book. Trust me.
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The only trick was never giving more that you were willing to lose.
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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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But those words were only the middle of the story. There was a beginning here, too.
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Failing sucks. But it's better than the alternative. Which is? Not even trying. Now he did look at me, straight on. Life's short, you know?
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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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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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The lizard stared up at us, and we stared back, taking each other in. He was little and defenseless, I felt sorry for him already. This was a screwed-up place he'd just come into. But he didn't have to know that. Not yet, anyway. There in that room, where it was hot and cramped, the world probably still seemed small enough to manage.
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When I was in high school, I was always really envious of those girls who seemed to have everything: the perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect boyfriend, perfect life. It wasn't until I was older that I realized that nobody's life is perfect, and that those girls probably had a lot of the same problems I did.
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So this had been all I wanted, a boy who understood how I felt. Now, though, I sometimes wished for more.
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He doesn’t love me. He might still love me as I was at fifteen, when I didn’t know any better. When I trusted everyone. I’m not that person any more. He’s just a boy. He was the first to really hurt me, but he’s just a boy. There were a lot of them.
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There's just something obvious about emptiness, even when you try to convince yourself otherwise.
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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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I'd been through so much, falling short again and again, and only recently had found a place where who I was, right now, was enough.
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I don't know. Just because someone's pretty doesn't mean she's decent. Or vice versa. I'm not into appearances. I like flaws, I think they make things interesting.
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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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