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Maybe other writers have perfect first drafts, but I am not one of them. I always try to get the book as tight as I can, but you reach a point as the author where you have lost all perspective.
Sarah Dessen
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Sarah Dessen
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: June 6
Novelist
Writer
Evanston
Illinois
Trying
Perspective
Always
Maybe
Point
Perfect
Drafts
Lost
Tight
Firsts
Author
Book
Writers
First
Reach
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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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There was nothing, nothing to depend on. And why was I surprised?
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Your mother won a special reward, she told me, because everyone had a head in her pictures. We all applauded.
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Maybe we were all destined to just keep doing the same stupid things, over and over again, never really learning a single thing.
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Some things don't last forever, but some things do. Like a good song, or a good book, or a good memory you can take out and unfold in your darkest times, pressing down on the corners and peering in close, hoping you still recognize the person you see there.
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The way I see it, she continued, is that some things are just meant to be the way they are.
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When I pictured myself, it was always like just an outline in a coloring book, with the inside not yet completed. All the standard features were there. but the colors, the zigzags and plaids, the bits and pieces that made up me, Halley, weren't yet in place. Scarlett's vibrant reds and golds helped some, but I was still waiting.
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This is personal, she'd said. Real. This moment was too, even if you couldn't see it at first glance. It was fake on the outside, but so true within. You only had to look, really look to tell.
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Maybe, you just misplaced it, you know? It's been there. But you just haven't been looking in the right spot. Because lost means forever, it's gone. But misplaced... that means it's still around, somewhere. Just not where you thought.
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I wasn't ready for this, but then I probably never would be, and this year, like so much else, wouldn't wait. I had no choice but to get out of my car, with everyone watching and begin in earnest, alone. So I did
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I wondered again why the right thing always seemed to be met with so much resistance, when you'd think it would be the easier path. You had to fight to be virtuous.
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I was bored. Sad. Lonely. It was only a matter of time before I cracked.
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It's always been hard to call myself a writer. I think a part of me still thinks it's too good to be true.
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What did it feel like, I wondered, to love someone that much? So much that you couldn't even control yourself when they came close, as if you might just break free of whatever was holding you and throw yourself at them with enough force to easily overwhelm you both.
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Don't give me no rotten tomato, 'cause all I ever wanted was your sweet potato.
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How it seemed like you could see everything, but certain things were blocked out, hidden.
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No, no, no to Tallyho.
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Fifteen minutes later, a meeting was called. Okay, look. Deb's face was dead serious. I know I just joined this project, and I don't want to offend anyone. But I'm going to be honest. I think you've been going about this all wrong. I'm offended, Dave told her flatly.
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What you need, what you deserve, is a guy who adores you for what you are. Who doesn't see you as a project, but a prize. you know?
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This Lullaby is only a few words, a simple run of chords, quiet here in this spare room, but you can hear it, hear it, wherever you may go, even if I let you down, this lullaby plays on.
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