She felt everything too deeply, it was like the world was too much for her.
It's not only children who grow. Parents do too. As much as we watch to see what our children do with their lives, they are watching us to see what we do with ours. I can't tell my children to reach for the sun. All I can do is reach for it, myself.
Every child, woman, and man should possess license to speak or sing in his or her true voice.
A good home must be made, not bought. In the end, it's not track lighting or a sun room that brings light into a kitchen.
I believe every one of us possesses a fundamental right to tell our own story.
To share our stories is not only a worthwhile endeavor for the storyteller, but for those who hear our stories and feel less alone because of it.
It's not only children who grow. Parents do too.
I do not outline. There are writers I know and count as my friends who certainly do it the other way but for me part of the adventure is not knowing how it's going to turn out.
Although Salinger had long since cut me out of his life completely and made it plain that he had nothing but contempt for me, the thought of becoming the object of his wrath was more than I felt ready to take on.
I was giving a speech one time, and the woman who introduced me said, 'Well, she used to be J. D. Salinger's girlfriend. I thought, 'God, is that all I've been?' I didn't want to be reduced to that.
It troubles me that people speak about writing for money as ugly and distasteful.
If a man wishes to truly not be written about, he would do well not to write letters to 18-year-old girls, inviting them into his life.
The painter who feels obligated to depict his subjects as uniformly beautiful or handsome and without flaws will fall short of making art.
Many women my age have known the experience of giving up crucial parts of themselves to please the man they love.
Before I had children I always wondered whether their births would be, for me, like the ultimate in gym class failures. And I discovered instead... that I'd finally found my sport.
A person who deserves my loyalty receives it.
Those who rhapsodize about the ease and joy of childhood have perhaps forgotten what it's like to be 12 years old.
The silence was part of the story I wanted to tell.
My job is writing. I get paid to do it. When was the last time you heard someone challenge a doctor for making money off of cancer?
A good home must be made, not bought.
Wherever it is you make your home, there is always this other place, this other person, calling to you. Come to me. Come back.
In the event of an oxygen shortage on airplanes, mothers of young children are always reminded to put on their own oxygen mask first, to better assist the children with theirs. The same tactic is necessary on terra firma. There's no way of sustaining our children if we don't first rescue ourselves. I don't call that selfish behavior. I call it love.
Imagine if you succeeded in making the world perfect for your children what a shock the rest of life would be for them.
One of the sad realities of being a parent is that the same stuff you know is exciting, educational, and enriching in your child'slife is often messy, smelly and exhausting to deal with.
When I was 12 years old, I read Nancy Drew mysteries and biographies of Madame Curie and Florence Nightingale and books about girls who love horses or go to nursing school. I belonged to the Girl Scouts and got A's in school and rarely disobeyed my parents. I still kept a collection of Barbie dolls in my room, and I almost never spoke to boys.
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