Shannon Celebi Quotes

Wine and a straitjacket. That pretty much sums it up.

Through career fumbles and life changes, she supported me. Through shattered dreams and hopes almost-realized, she supported me too.

It wasn’t as if she’d thought it through or anything, how what a person wanted wasn’t always what they needed, and what a person needed might be the last thing they could ever want.

You’re worried about what-ifs. Well, what if you stopped worrying?

Here’s a random factoid: I like cats. And here’s another: I like red wine.

Her mother always told her, “If he hits you, then you leave, ” but Jack had never hit her, not with his fists.

She fantasized sometimes too about killing him a little: a little poison in his pudding, a little flick-flick-flick with a fillet knife at his throat.

I could say it all began with my mother.

She didn't tell him white folks couldn't love the same as coloreds. She couldn't love the same neither though, cuz more than half of her was white.

Water. Like a blanket. Dark. Intoxicating. Cold.

Of course, I rationalize the fear. I realize it’s not real, that my house isn’t burning down, that the deer aren’t going to kill me.

Don’t worry if you fall, sweet girl. Youth is made for bruises.

All I cared about that summer were suntans, beaches, boys and booze.

My sister and I are so close that we finish each other’s sentences and often wonder who’s memories belong to whom.

If she could hate this much she sure as hell had loved.

It’s not like I planned it. I never woke up from some rosy dream and said, “Okay, world, today I’m gonna spaz.

Just write. That's my only tip. And read. I guess that's two.

Cuz I can count on one hand the men who’ve loved me, not in the Biblical sense—I don’t have enough digits for that—but who have truly loved me.

I think first of the children. What the hell am I supposed to tell them? Then I think about money, the house, all those things no widow will tell you ever crossed her mind.

The bottom line was that I was in an abusive relationship.

When I was twenty-something, I asked my father, “When did you start feeling like a grownup?” His response: “Never.

Just five minutes, God, I chant like some hostage negotiator on the brink of a resolution. Five minutes alone. Please, please. Please.

Okay, I’ll just jump right out and say it. I have anxiety issues.

A woman brings so much more to the world than birth, for she can birth discovery, intelligence, invention, art, just as well as any man.

I long for some connection, to the real and those who love them, and hope that my fiction can reach beyond the veil, that I might touch someone and make them feel something…or something.

Writing is a solitary business. It’s just you and your characters and a blank page you need to fill.

You’re saying, “What the hell am I gonna do with her?” You’re saying, “Shit, did she take her pills?” You’re saying, “Once upon a time, I used to have a little girl.

We didn’t want to admit it then, but we were friends. Best friends.

She was no stripper with a heart of gold, that was for sure. A heart of steel, more like.

She also understood there was a hole in her heart where her son should be, that she was a wicked, selfish woman for wishing him back.