Off the Page

A wish is just words. Belief is the catalyst. It's what sets that wish into motion.

Hope is what makes you look outside the window to see if it's stopped raining. Hope is what makes you believe he'll text you back. Hope is why you buy your jeans a little tight... Hope is why you get out of bed in the morning, and why you dream at night. Hope is what makes us believe that things can only get better. Hope is what keeps us going.

Stories are all around us, caught in the throats of the strangers you walk past and scrawled on the pages of locked diaries. They’re in love letters that were never sent and between the lines of every conversation ever spoken. Just because your story’s not written down doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

What would you do if you only had one day left in this world? Spend it with the people you love? Travel to the far corners of the earth to see as many wonders as possible? Eat nothing but chocolate? Would you apologize for all your mistakes? Would you stand up to those you'd never had the courage to face? Would you tell your secret crush that you loved him or her? Why is it that we wait till the last minute to do the things we should be doing all along?

What one person takes away from a book might be very different from what the next person takes away -- almost as if the story is altered depending on who's reading, where, and when. But then, maybe all books are like that -- a little different each time they are opened. The real question is who's doing the changing: the story, or the reader.

Well, you have to find that rare someone for whom you’re not putting on a show. Someone who shines a spotlight in your direction—not because you’re who they need you to be, or who they want you to be…just because you’re you.

Love isn't what you expect it to be. You imagine being drunk on happiness, but the truth is, you worry all the time. Is she ill? Hurt? Might she meet someone else? There's a moment when you realize that you've gotten everything you wished for. And right on its heels is the understanding that this means you have so much more to lose.

But without a reader, a story is only half complete. It's like blueprints that never get built; like a swimming pool without water. The foundation's there, but it's useless. Without a reader, the words just sit on the page, waiting to come alive in someone's imagination.

You've seen those pictures of couples kissing in front of a Christmas tree, or clasping hands on their wedding day, or holding a newborn baby between them-a snapshot of joy. But what do you really know about them? Just that at the second the shutter clicked, they loved each other. You have no idea what trials came before, or after. You don't know if one of them cheated, if they grew apart, if a divorce loomed on the horizon. You simply see that in one static moment, they were happy.

But even if every house looked identical-if all the furnishings were the same- it still wouldn't feel like yours. That's because home isn't where you are. It's who you're with.

The thing about a mom is that she's always there. She's the one who rubs your back when you have the flu, who manages to notice you have no clean underwear and does your wash for you, who stocks the refrigerator with all the foods you love without having to ask. The thing about a mom is that you never imagine taking care of her, instead of the other way around.

For every person you make happy, there's another one you disappoint.

How come love sounds so violent? You fall head over heels. You’re struck by Cupid’s arrow. You take the risk of having your heart broken. From an outside perspective, it sounds impossibly painful, not worth the trouble. And yet we do it every day. We keep coming back for more. Why? If it weren’t so perilous, maybe we wouldn’t crave it so much. Maybe it has to be brutal, in order to work. People come in so many shapes and sizes that it takes a bit of force in order to fit together perfectly. But you know what they say about a break that heals: it’s always stronger than before.

It's not my fault that my awesomeness intimidates people.

it’s quite difficult to know who owns a story. Is it the writer, who crafted it? The characters, who carry the plot forward? Or you, the reader, who breathes life into them? Or perhaps none of the three can exist without the other. Perhaps without this magical combination, a story would be nothing more than words on a page.

Because that’s what stories do. They help you escape, and they give you the chance to do things you never imagined you would or could. They let you feel heartbreak you’ve never had and experience adventures from the safety of your own room. They are dreams for those who are still awake. They

In the real world, you can't just turn a page and feel better.

Death is the guest you didn't invite: arriving when you least expect it, least need it and when you least want it.

Unlike the characters in the book, however, these different sorts of people don’t seem to mix well. It is like the salad dressing Jessamyn makes: a little bit of olive oil, a squeeze of lemon, and some red wine vinegar. If whipped, they combine. But leave them to their own devices and they will sort themselves out again. I don’t really understand this. When you have so many people, each one inevitably fascinating, why would you limit yourself to only those like you?

What if we did get so lucky that we're due for something terrible?

I don't really understand this. When you have so many people, each one inevitably fascinating, why would you limit yourself to only those like you?

Oliver," she says. "You can do this." I watch her walk away. When Delilah talks like that, it's easy to remember why I gave up everything I knew in order to be with her. She believes in me, and if someone believes in you wholeheartedly, you start to believe in yourself as well.

If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it really fall? If a character sits in a book and no one reads it, is he truly alive? As

Outside, the moon is a silver sliver. Every night, the shadow eats a slice of it, until it’s nothing but this hollow rind. I feel the same way; with each day, I lose a little more of myself.

It was a hell of a lot easier to be silent and overlooked than to be constantly shut down.

I honestly can't tell if [she's] being intentionally mean or is she's truly that stupid.

But home, to me, is her. Without her here beside me, the world is just the place where I take up space.

Delilah's mother cleans other people's houses, and she reminds me a bit of another story from Rapscullio's shelves, about a young scullery maid who possesses both glass footwear and inner beauty, which makes a prince fall head over heels for her.