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Luckily for me, Kassara is well-versed in, and completely immune, to my cynicism and terrible personality.
Everyone needs at least one friend like this.
Hollywood producers don’t just reach out to midlist authors and ask them for coffee.
“If you don’t want this stuff to happen, why do you write about it?” he demands, staring at me with wild eyes. “It’s just fiction. It’s made up. It’s just supposed to be a story.” “It’s so much more than that, Mari. We both know it. There’s beauty in it. In pain. In suffering. In fear.” He inches closer, like something out of a horror movie. In the book, the killer plucks out his victim’s two front teeth. “You saw that. You got it, more than anyone else. You understand how beautiful pain can be.”
That’s my burden—loving someone capable of monstrous things.
To appreciate the light, we have to be willing to look into the dark.
