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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.

Sarah Dessen

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Sarah Dessen
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: June 6
Novelist
Writer
Evanston
Illinois
Memories
Even
Story
Time
Perfect
Life
True
Stories
Best
Cracks
Ever
Realization
Might

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Pretend to be a delinquent? I asked clarifying. You can do it, Dave advised me. Just don't smile, and try to look like you're considering stealing something.
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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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Of course it hurts, she grumbled, tipping my head further back. Life sucks. Get over it
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If you have just one person believe in you, you'll always find your way
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If things don't work out the way you want, hold your head up high and be proud. And try again. And again. And again!
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And that was it. All this buildup to a great leap, and I didn't fall or fly. Instead I found myself back on the edge of the cliff, blinking, wondering if I'd ever jumped at all. It's not supposed to be like this.
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He's very nice. He's something I replied. She considered this zipping her purse shut. Then she said Well everyone is. Everyone is Something. For some reason that stuck with me simple and yet not every since she'd said it. It was like a puzzle as well two vague words with one clear one between them.
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Because it is so hard, in any life, to believe in what you can’t fully understand.
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Whether it was a song, a person, or a story, there was a lot you couldn’t know from just an excerpt, a glance, or part of a chorus.
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Wake up, Caitlin, Mr. Lensing had said. But what he didn't under­stand was that this dreamland was preferable, walking through this life half-sleeping, everything at arm's length or farther away.
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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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And no relationship is perfect, ever. There are always some ways you have to bend, to compromise, to give something up in order to gain something greater.
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'I don't get it,' Caroline said, bemused. 'She's the only one with wings. Why is that?'
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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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Wes wants to be with Macy. And Macy, whether she'll admit it or not, wants to be with Wes. And yet they're not together, which is not only unjust, but when you think about it, tragical!
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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.
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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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I think part of the problem sometimes is that there's so much happening in my books, to whittle it down into a single script is hard.
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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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It’s never something huge that changes the everything, but instead the tiniest of details, irrevocably tweaking the balance of the universe while you’re busy focusing on the big picture.
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