She knew with painful certainty that the opposite of love was not hate, but indifference.
Insults sting but a little when they stem from a man’s ignorance.
Her name was a silent song on his lips. Her love was like a circle in the water, radiating ever outward, inevitably encompassing even the remotest of hearts.
It isn’t fair, but maybe that’s the whole point. Fairness has no part in real life, and she took that lesson away from the Hotel Angeline with her.
Fear and love were sometimes the same thing both necessary unavoidable. Now she understood that it was okay to bleed if you know how to heal.
You have seven writers in your basement?”Donald nods, signing, “They like it here. There’s a poet, a couple of novelists, an opera librettist, an essay writer . . . . They don’t usually make much trouble.
If I’m all alone, then the standard for sanity is up to me entirely.
She knew the soothing power of a human touch on aching flesh. Knew the strange bond that formed when two creatures united in mutual need, one hurting, the other healing.
She watched the gap between ship and shore grow to a huge gulf. Perhaps this was a little like dying, the departed no longer visible to the others, yet both still existed, only in different worlds.
Already, Seattle is taking hold of her. She still holds Sedona in the dry tan of her skin and in her hair, but the fine mist of the Northwest is making its way to places she didn’t know were parched.
You always look on the dark side of life. I believe in capturing the moment…Joy is so fleeting. You never know when it might be snatched away.
I see the way he looks at you when you’re not aware of his gaze. I see the way you care for him. And so when you think he wants you gone, it is not that. He is simply afraid to lose you.
There is something about losing your mother that is permanent and inexpressable – a wound that will never quite heal.
She caught herself working so hard at mothering that she forgot to enjoy her children. -from ~Homecoming Season~
at the center of every fairy tale lay a truth that gave the story its power.
Wake up & Smell The Hot Chocolate ! ~ Eddie Havens
Talent is required, but much of writing is a matter of craft, which develops with time, attention, patience and practice, like playing an instrument or learning to dance.