Emma Forrest





Emma Forrest

Author profile


born
The United Kingdom
gender
female

website

genre


About this author

Emma Forrest was born in London and now lives in Los Angeles, CA.


Average rating: 3.55 · 3,026 ratings · 385 reviews · 10 distinct works · Similar authors
Your Voice in My Head
3.74 of 5 stars 3.74 avg rating — 1,751 ratings — published 2011 — 17 editions
Namedropper
3.46 of 5 stars 3.46 avg rating — 312 ratings — published 2000 — 3 editions
Thin Skin
3.25 of 5 stars 3.25 avg rating — 218 ratings — published 2007 — 8 editions
Cherries In The Snow
3.38 of 5 stars 3.38 avg rating — 117 ratings — published 2005 — 2 editions
Damage Control: Women on th...
2.87 of 5 stars 2.87 avg rating — 60 ratings — published 2007 — 4 editions
Your Voice In My Head
3.75 of 5 stars 3.75 avg rating — 4 ratings
Cerises Givrées
by
2.0 of 5 stars 2.00 avg rating — 1 rating — published 2007
Damage Control
0.0 of 5 stars 0.00 avg rating — 0 ratings — published 2007
Damage Control
0.0 of 5 stars 0.00 avg rating — 0 ratings — published 2007
Namedropper
0.0 of 5 stars 0.00 avg rating — 0 ratings — published 2000
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“Time heals all wounds. And if it doesn't, you name them something other than wounds and agree to let them stay.”
Emma Forrest, Your Voice in My Head

“I wouldn't say that my emotions are extreme. I'd say they are committed. My moods are the equivalent of Madonna's dancing: inappropriate but all-out. If I'm going to be sad, I might as well be the saddest a girl can get. And if I'm happy, I want to be the happiest. The trouble is, I feel highs so ecstatic that just being normal feels like a thousand-mile drop and being unhappy is excruciating.”
Emma Forrest

“From the time I met him, he left me little clues of a man, a trail of bread crumbs to a gingerbread cottage. Inside the cottage were peeling pictures of Elizabeth Taylor and Marilyn Monroe that keep sliding to the floor because the walls were too sweet to hold the Blu-Tack. I tried to pick the posters off the floor and got so distracted, I ended up in an oven. So I climbed out of the oven and out of the house and I was saving myself, but it hurt so bad. I found the boy I loved, but he didn't want to hug me because I was blistered and spotted with bread crumbs. I looked up close because, up close, I could always see myself reflected in the surface of his shiny, iconic beauty. But suddenly he had pores, grey hairs, and chapped lips. And I couldn't see a damn thing.”
Emma Forrest

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