The Lonely Hearts Book Club

by Lucy Gilmore

“When was the last time you cared about something so much you couldn’t eat?” he demanded. “Or sleep? When have you ever felt the fire of life burn so bright that it hurts? When did you ever bother to fight for something you loved?”

But the only thing I’d been able to glean from the book was mothers were one hell of a gift in this world, and we all just fucking wasted them.

Life stories were written in ink, not pencil. Once they were down, the only thing you could do was turn the page.

‘Hell is oneself, Hell is alone.’ Truer words have never been written.”

This world was a terrible place. It gave you people to love and then took them away before you stopped loving them. It made you mean and angry and cruel to those who needed you most. It ground you down until it was all you could do to get through the day. But most of all, it tried to convince you that you were alone in your suffering.

Life was calling to me—it had been calling to me for years—but it had taken this random, beautiful collection of people for me to realize what I had to do. It was time for me to answer.