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But it was too early to know: there were always more pages to go, more words to be written, before the story was over.

Sarah Dessen

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Sarah Dessen
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: June 6
Novelist
Writer
Evanston
Illinois
Early
Written
Story
Words
Stories
Always
Pages

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Together, we looked down at the tiny house, the sole thing on this vast, flat surface. Like the only person living on the moon. It could be either lonely or peaceful, depending on how you looked at it. It's a start, I said.
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I was bored. Sad. Lonely. It was only a matter of time before I cracked.
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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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As if at the age of eighteen life already sucked beyond any hope of improvement.
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If he'd been any other boy, and this was any other world, I would have kissed him. Nothing could have stopped me.
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Needing was so easy: it came naturally, like breathing. Being needed by someone else, though, that was the hard part. But as with giving help and accepting it, we had to do both to be made complete-like links overlapping to form a chain, or a lock finding the right key.
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Each time, I think I'm never going to write another book. It never gets easier.
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I wondered if he ever thought of me, and hated the pang I felt when I told myself he didn't.
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But the original was there as well—more jaded and rudimentary, functional rather than romantic. It fit not just the yellow house but another door, deep within my own heart. One that had been locked so tight for so long that I was afraid to even try it for fear of what might be on the other side
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It is kind of hard to hold a lot in. But for me… it’s sometimes even harder to let it out.
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As he heard me approach, he quickly leaped up, grabbing a nearby loaf of bread and holding it in front of him as if struck by a sudden desire to make a sandwich.
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The true story...is the realization that no time in your life is ever perfect, that even the best memories have cracks you might not see.
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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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I was actually kind of a hot mess in high school. I did a lot of things in high school I'm not proud of. I wasn't a good student and I wasn't particularly a good daughter. I wasn't very engaged.
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Like I, of all people, didn't know better than to lead a total stranger to the point where they could hurt me most, knowing how easily they'd be able to find their way back to it.
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The end of a wedding reception is always so depressing. And only the bride and groom are spared, jetting off into the sunset while the rest of us wake up the next morning to just another day.
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As I rolled over, stretching out, my only thought was to go back to the dream I'd been having, which I couldn't remember, other than that it had been good, in that distant, hopeful way unreal things can be.
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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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If there's one thing I've learned in the last few months, it's that sometimes you just have to close your eyes and jump.
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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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