Even as your body betrays you, your mind denies it.
With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.
Sometimes when you get older—and I'm not talking about you, I'm talking generally, because everyone ages differently—things you think on and wish on start to seem real. And then you believe them, and before you know it they're a part of your history, and if someone challenges you on them and says they're not true—why, then you get offended.
I stare at her for a long moment. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.
After sixty-one years together, she simply clutched my hand and exhaled.
I scan the room. Catherine is writing quickly, her light brown hair falling over her face. She is left-handed, and because she writes in pencil her left arm is silver from wrist to elbow.
It seems natural to surround my fictional world with animals because my reality is full of them. When I'm sitting there conceiving a story, they just pop up.
I just think I'm better equipped to make a study of human personality than trying to get into the mind of animals.
Gorillas are in danger of being wiped out by the Ebola virus. I feel like we have limited time to get to know them and understand them and they're going to disappear - that's terrifically sad. Wouldn't it be great if we could stop that?
I don't like outlining, because books are organic things. Sometimes a book doesn't want to be written in a certain way.
