Sarah Dessen (born June 6, 1970) is an American writer who lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.
Just me and the future, finally together. Now there was a happy ending I could believe in.
How fast were you?" Wes asked me. I said, "Not that fast. " "You mean you couldn't. . . fly?" he said, smiling at me.
She said writting novels was like childbirth: if you truly remembered how awful it got, you'd never do it again.
I was tired of hanging on, taking the torn pieces to make something whole with them.
I love YA, and it's been a really good fit for me. But at some point, I would like to try something else: a collection of short stories, or writing about something other than high school. A lot has happened to me since I was eighteen.
If you could just be nice, then you wouldn't have to worry about arguments at all. but being nice wasn't as easy as it seemed, especially when the rest of the world could be so mean.
She knew I could tell with one glance, one look, one simple instant. It was her eyes. Despite the thick makeup, they were still dark-rimmed. , haunted, and sad. Most of all though, they were familiar. The fact that we were in front of hundreds of strangers changed nothing at all. I'd spent a summer with those same eyes-scared, lost, confused-staring back at me. I would have known them anywhere.
It was like that part of my life, was just gone. It was almost too easy, for something I once thought had meant everything.
You know the minute you stop thinking about it, it'll happen.
Now, now," my father said. "Let's just get the bags. " This was typical. My father, the lone male in our estrogen-heavy household, had always dealt with any kind of emotional situation or conflict by doing something concrete and specific. Discussion of cramps and heavy flow at the breakfast table? He was up and out the door to change oil on one of our cars. Coming home in tears for reasons you just didn't want to discuss? He'd go make you a grilled cheese, which he'd probably end up eating. Family crisis brewing in a public place? Bags. Get the bags.
He just stood there, looking at me, as if I had actually changed before his eyes. But this was the girl I'd been all along. I'd just hidden her well.
Everyone has their weak spot. The one thing that, despite your best efforts, will always bring you to your knees, regardless of how strong you are otherwise.
Look. We both know life is short, Macy. Too short to waste a single second with anyone who doesn't appreciate and value you.
But all I could think of was how when nothing made sense and hadn't for ages, you just have to grab onto anything you feel sure of.
And to know me, as you have discovered, is to love me.
Well," I said finally, knowing he was waiting, "you make me laugh. " He nodded. "And?" "You're pretty good-looking. " "Pretty good-looking? I called you beautiful. " "You want to be beautiful?" I asked him. "Are you saying I'm not?
It takes so little to change everything. If you really thought about it, it would scare you to death.
talk was cheap and useless. Action was what mattered. And me, I was moving. Now, again, always.
But I always worked harder when I was up against something, or when someone assumed I couldn't succeed. That's what drove me, all those nights studying. The fact that so many figured I couldn't do it.
I think if you're going to show a true representation of any one life, it can't be about any one thing. I try to see more of a full picture, with the romance just a single part.