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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.

Sarah Dessen

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Sarah Dessen
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: June 6
Novelist
Writer
Evanston
Illinois
Hard
Good
Thinks
Always
Writer
Think
Call
Thinking
True
Stills
Part
Still

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Lifestyle is an terrible, unpleasant put to not have a very finest buddy.
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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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I'd seen another shade of him, and if it had been light where we were now, he'd have seen the same of me. So I was grateful, as I had been so often in my life, for the dark.
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What you have to decide... is how you want your life to be. If your forever was ending tomorrow, would this be how you'd want to have spent it? Listen, the truth is, nothing is guaranteed. You know that more than anybody. So dont be afraid. Be alive.
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Don't be a fool. Don't give up something important to hold onto someone who can't even say they love 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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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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I've always known who I am. I might not work perfectly, or be like them, but that's okay. I know I work in my own way.
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Odd how it was so easy for a stranger to assume such familiarity. Especially when those who were supposed to know you best often didn't, not at all.
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That was the thing about being on the inside: the world was just going on, even when it seemed like time for you had stopped for good.
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I looked down again at the sign in my hand - ENJOY THE RIDE! - and it seemed, suddenly, to be just that. A sign.
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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.
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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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It was as familiar to me as a song I'd been hearing my whole life, covered by various people but the basic tune the same.
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And so we stood there in the kitchen, my mother and I, facing off over everything that had built up since June, when I was willing to hand myself over free and clear. Now I needed her to return it all to me, with the faith that I could make my own way.
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So much had happened that morning. Yet it was this image, this moment, that i kept going back to hours later, after we'd made it safely to the walkway and gone our separate ways to classes. How it felt to have the world moving beneath me, a hand gripping mine, knowing if i fell, at least i wouldn't do it alone.
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Not everything's perfect, especially in the beginning. And its all right to have a little bit of regret every once in a while. It's when you feel it all the time and can't do anything about it... that's when you get into trouble
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I'd been convinced I was on the outside, but really, I'd always been within arm's reach. All I had to do was ask, and I, too, would be easily brought back, surrounded and immersed, finding myself safe, somewhere in between.
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Morris was not the type to offer a hug or even hold your hand. But there was something in his quiet indignation at the universe then--and Luke, now--that was just the kind of comfort I needed. I'm such a mess, I said. We're almost off the island and I didn't even ask you where you were going. He shrugged. No place. Wherever you are.
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Like so many before them, they didn't care that my dad was only the messenger. They still wanted to shoot him.
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