It’s tough feeling like your interests and talents aren’t valued in society. It’s tough feeling like you’re never quite good enough, like your abilities never quite meet people’s expectations.
Happiness, if anything, is best when it remains a warm gun.
Within seconds, the desire to be needlessly rude evaporates like so many tiny, ugly molecules of steam.
Finishing a book that leaves you feeling like you’ve just made a whole group of new friends that you will keep with you for the rest of your life.
“She’s ugly” turned into “she’s okay.” “She’s okay” turned into “she’s hot.” And “she’s hot” turned into Cassie Ventura.
“I am writing a novel.” It’s like a new mantra, holding hands and skipping gleefully through my head along with “I’ve always been a writer,” harmonious and happy at last.
You’re alone all the time. At first it’s unbearable and agonizing and physically painful, the sense that you no matter what you do, you will do it in solitude.