Quotes: Shannon Celebi

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

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

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Sometimes, I feel my breath coming in shorter, quicker, spastic bursts, feel my heart threaten to thunder through my ribs, feel sweat beading on my brow...and I know it’s time to bust out those “chocolate frogs” from Harry Potter.

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

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

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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.

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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.

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I could say it all began with my mother.

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Instead, I opened my eyes to find the thing in front of my face, wafting dead horse breath across my chin and up my nose, its mouth like a gaping maw; its eyes, two giant wormholes, twisting and bending with some apparitional substance that could have been space and time if I’d known anything about physics.

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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.

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I’m sorry if...I get too personal, if I make you uncomfortable, but writing is like one of the seven deadly sins, like Sharing on Mr. Rogers, and once you get the bug you’re trapped in The Neighborhood of Make-Believe forever.

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

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

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Amber Rorman had told me too that our third grade teacher, Ms. Lizetti, was really a lesbian, which I thought was a disease until I asked Amber and Amber told me to ask her mother who told me to ask my mother, who said, “Lesbians are women who like to have sex with other women,” which I didn’t think was all that weird.

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

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

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

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

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Mama wasn't dead...exactly. They all said she was, but when Elma was small, she seen Mama creep into her room at night, half-naked, head all bloodied red like when they found her by the well that day, and Elma reckoned dead just meant pretendin' you couldn't move or breathe until nightfall when you got up and walked around like you was free.

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I am forever an advocate of books, both the reading of them and the writing. There is something sacred to me in that community. Because writing--and reading--is a solitary business. And it’s good to know I’m not alone.