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I’m the dedicated introvert, always more willing to spend a quiet Friday night with a good book and a glass of wine.
I have my favorites to study and my favorites to read for fun. I have books I’d sell my soul to read again for the first time, and books that feel new each time I reread them. I have my favorite book I love to hate, and my favorite book I hate to love.”
“Someday, Mac, you’re going to realize exactly how much I enjoy staring at you all day.”
“I’d take you on my team any day,
“That’s the beauty of literature. It makes us feel. Or maybe a better description is that it allows us to feel in a safe space.
Your success is not a fluke.
Don’t let other people silence your voice.”
“Don’t cover yourself. Don’t shrink away. You can say no to me, but don’t for one second think that you need to cower or feel embarrassed. You are fucking beautiful. You are beautiful tonight, and you were beautiful when I scared the shit out of you on your run, and you are beautiful every damn day from the minute you walk into my line of sight until the minute you walk out.”
“Do you think I’m some loner, writerly type who never gets out or talks to anyone unless I have to?”
“Did you know,” I continue, “that as books decompose, the paper releases a chemical compound similar to vanilla, and that’s why old books smell so good?”
May you plant your own garden full of vibrancy and softness.
“You’re exquisite,” he breathes, barely audible. “I couldn’t write you if I tried.”
“When someone comes into our lives who sees into our souls in a way Mr. Evans’ manuscript would suggest he saw into yours, we hang on and don’t let go.”
