Two questions form the foundation of all novels: “What if?” and “What next?” (A third question, “What now?”, is one the author asks himself every 10 minutes or so; but it’s more a cry than a question.) Every novel begins with the speculative question, What if “X” happened? That’s how you start.
I’ve had enough of these streets that sweat a cold, yellow slime, of hostile people, of crying myself to sleep every night. I’ve had enough of thinking, enough of remembering.
An answering smile drifted across his tanned face. “What is mine, I intend to
Leaders don’t cry for what country can do for them for free. They dream about what they can do for country at high cost.
True friends chop the onions and cry together.
Evie wanted to cry. From fear. From exhaustion, yes. But mostly from the cruel uselessness, the damned stupid arbitrariness of it all.
… sometimes in life, you either laugh or you cry. And I prefer to laugh.
When you love someone, truly love them, you lay your heart open to them. You give them a part of yourself that you give to no one else, and you let them inside a part of you that only they can hurt-you literally hand them the razor with a map of where to cut deepest and most painfully on your heart and soul. And when they do strike, it’s crippling-like having your heart carved out.
When was the last time you had a good belly-shaking-tear-jerking-snot-producing laugh?
If God could run out of grace, He would’ve for me by now. And yet every morning I wake up, He says, “There is more, there is still more.