…’being published’ is not the same as being a real writer.
But the ground shakes, as if something’s trying to push up from below, and I think of other people’s mothers shaking out their duvets or even God shaking out the fabric of space-time.
But I quite like the way you can talk about science without necessarily using mathematics, but using metaphors instead.
I think about stories and their logic and wonder if there can be any such thing as simply “there is a book.
In real life nothing means anything. Stuff happens and there just is no structure.
I sit up in bed slowly, feeling the disappointment trickle away like puddles after a rain shower.
Sometimes you have to trust grownups, perhaps more so when they are not there to actually supervise you.
What folly takes light through ether to each eye from every horizon.
I feel like crying. There’s something so sad about broken concrete.
Max always mumbles; not in a shy way, but rather as if he’s telling you what it will cost to take out your worst enemy, or how much you’d have to pay to rig a horse race.
People make events into stories. Stories give events meaning.
There’s something romantic about it, of course, in the way only other people’s lives can be.
One minute I was playing chess and doing maths all the time, the next I had been rerouted into more ‘normal’ girls’ activities: reading, writing stories and worrying about my clothes.
Nothing means anything but you still have to follow the rules.
The sky is grey, with a thin TV-static drizzle that hangs in the air like it’s been freeze-framed.
Sometimes I wake up with such an immense sense of disappointment that I can hardly breathe.
Some writers, notably Anton Chekov, argue that all characters must be admirable, because once we’ve looked at anyone deeply enough and understood their motivation we must identify with them rather than judge them.