The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient, #3)

by Helen Hoang

For that’s the only place where true perfection exists—the blank page. Nothing I actually do can compete with the boundless potential of what I could do. But if I allow the fear of imperfection to trap me in perpetual beginnings, I’ll never create anything again. Am I even an artist, then? What is my purpose, then?

There’s nice outdoor furniture and blooming whatever-the-fuck trees (the flowers are purple, that’s all I know), and the fire keeps people from getting cold at night.

I’ve always had a take-it-or-leave-it attitude when it comes to people, meaning if they don’t like what they see, they can fuck off. But this is Anna’s mom. I have to make an effort and figure this out, even if it’s uncomfortable and frustrating and goes against who I am. Anna cares, so I care.

I hear so much hurting in her words that my own eyes sting. It doesn’t entirely make sense to me. If our places were reversed, I don’t think I’d feel the same way. I like taking care of people. I like being needed. But Anna’s pain is real. I can’t brush it aside just because I don’t understand it. I can’t place judgment on it. Pain is pain.