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if you don’t fit in, fool everyone until you do.
She was brilliant at possibilities. She thrived on them.
The kind of good that stuck to your bones, thick and warm, and coated your soul in golden light. Good food with good friends.
“Isn’t it strange how the world works sometimes? It’s never a matter of time, but a matter of timing.”
You have to try on a lot of shoes until you find some you like walking in.
“I think,” he finally said, choosing his words carefully, “that nothing lasts forever. Not the good things, not the bad. So just find what makes you happy, and do it for as long as you can.”
When she first died, I thought about what it’d be like to pack up my life and leave. Race my sadness across the world, and see who won.
He was just so handsome, I wanted to trace the lines of his face, I wanted to sketch the sharpness of his jawbone, I wanted to paint the color of his hair.
Because the things that mattered most never really left. The love stays. The love always stays, and so do we.
And this might seem a little silly, but I also want to thank my cat, Paprika (Pepper, my lovely Pepper), who’s sat at my feet for almost all of my novels so far, a steadfast companion in a career that is, often, a solitary thing. She’s sick right now, and I’m not sure about the future, but for the moment, she’s lying on my bed, and she’s here. There’s a magic to that, when I read these acknowledgments in the future, and I remember this moment. My cat on my bed, coffee cooling on the desk beside me, piles of laundry mounting in my basket. A gift from me to me.
Speaking of which, last of all, I’d like to thank myself. Because I did it. I wrote a novel. It doesn’t matter how many I’ve written before this, or how many I’ll write after—it’s still a wonder I wrote this one. I did something I didn’t think I could do. I put the Technicolor fluff in my head into ink-colored words on the page. It’s a wonder. I hope this feeling never goes away.
