The Library of Lost Things

I've never considered any book, especially a novel or work of literature, something you should 'plow through.' The whole point of reading is savor ing the story, immersing your self in a whole new place. Maybe one that doesn't even exist.

Holding a real book is like holding something alive. There’s the grit of the pages between your fingers as you turn them. The edges get soft and worn. With a real book, you feel the weight of the story more.

It was the small time between sunset and evening when the sky turned the color of crushed plums, bruised from the wounds of another day.

Sometimes you need to do more for yourself than just manage.

Speed-reading just squashes the whole experience. You miss detail and pacing, and everything the author intended you to feel in the first place.

I like strong words that mean something.

You're like all the places I want to fly to

But after so many years, I knew what to do with hope. I held it an arm's length away.

The difference between him her and the other girls at such a time was that they knew it was make-believe, while to her make-believe and true were exactly the same thing.” Sometimes you can’t see where make-believe ends and true starts. And sometimes you can, and you cry. —J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan, and Peter Pan Mystery Scribbler

Will you fly with me?

She’ll read a thousand happy endings before she finds her own.

Marisol looked me over. “Now for your outfit.” I tugged my black tee and tan shorts. “I’m already wearing an outfit.” “No,” Marisol said with a slow head shake. “There’s a big difference between wearing clothes and wearing an outfit.” She pointed at my closet. “Get that denim shirt I made you buy and layer it on top, opened, sleeves rolled. Your tee has a little rip.” I glanced down. Grimaced. “Then the necklace with the dangling blue stone that’s hanging in your jewelry caddy, by your black jacket. And swap the flip-flops for sandals. The black ones with silver buckles.” “How in the—” “After all this time, you’re actually questioning it?” I conceded with a hand flip and moved toward the closet Marisol freakishly knew by heart.

Well, you're not all those books you read. You're not even your mad skills. What's under all the words?

let her cover the mark as she will, the pang of it will be always in her heart.’” —Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

You're part of a different dream.

It lodged behind my tongue like a pill you can't seem to swallow.

Language master that I was, my own word game never clicked well with guys. I'd never quite mastered the art of perfect response, either.

...let her cover the mark as she will, the pang of it will be always in her heart.’” —Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

Who does your heart tell you he is?

First, a daring leap into my scowling mouth, bounding over a white-toothed fence, tunneling down, down, down my throat. He was in. Proud of himself as he swung from vein to vein, swimming through blood and life. Both, mine. Until he felt it time to scale the bony rungs of my ribs, slipping between to grasp the center thing that bucked and beat. My heart.

Wisps of her kohl pencil drew guidelines around each brow.

I knew then, even in a twilight of unknown tomorrows, some things would still shine.