Ellen Louise Hopkins (born March 26, 1955) is a novelist who has published several New York Times bestselling novels that are popular among the teenage and young adult audience.
Think long and hard before offering your heart to someone who can only accept it part-time
I mean, if you're gonna purposely lose your mind, you want to get it back some day. Don't you? Okay, maybe not.
Living means taking chances. Risks. Playing safe all the time is being dead inside, even if you happen to still be breathing.
It [death] chokes you, gags you, but you have to pretend that you're doing just fine, not trembling with this fear because the end is close.
Funny how when your life is mostly bullshit, you turn off feeling. Sometimes it's hard to turn it back on again.
I hate this feeling. Like I'm here, but I'm not. Like someone cares. But they don't. Like I belong somewhere else, anywhere but here, and escape lies just past that snowy window, cool and crisp as the February air.
Love is Chocolate The unprocessed kind. Dark. Bitter. But always with the promise of sweet perfection. All it takes is sugar- that certain someone's kiss, flavored with possibility. If Dani has taught me anything, it's that life is brimming with possibilities. Every single day brings choices.
Think of how they must have loved when all they had was each other.
The more I think about it, the more I believe there has to be a subtle yet satisfying method of revenge.
Something stirred beneath my skin, some being inside I'd only suspected existed, demon or angel, I couldn't say.
Falling in love with someone is the surest highway to hurt that I know. When the door to love opens, the window to control closes.
That's what I'll be. A silhouette, rarely seen, and yet believed in.
Am I more afraid Of taking a chance and learning I'm somebody I don't know, or of risking new territory, only to find I'm the same old me? There is comfort in the tried and true. Breaking ground might uncover a sinkhole, one impossible to climb out of. And setting sail in uncharted waters might mean capsizing into a sea monster's jaws. Easier to turn my back on these things than to try tjem and fail. And yet, a whisper insists I need to know if they are or aren't integral to me. Status quo is a swamp. And stagnation is slow death.
I'm in love. And I like how that feels. And I hate how that feels. Because love is an invention of fiction writers.
Eyes Tell Stories But do they know how to craft fiction? Do they know how to spin lies? His eyes swear forever, flatter with vows of only me. But are they empty promises? I stare into his eyes, as into a crystal ball, but I cannot find forever, only movies of yesterday, a sketchbook of today, dreams of a shared tomorrow. His eyes whisper secrets. But are they truths or fairy tales? I wonder if even he knows.