Quotes from Jennifer Weiner

I'm not sure whether that had to do with the humor, or with the unfashionable fairy-tale ending, which is very different from much of what I read in The New Yorker, where short stories seem to end with someone staring off at the white walls of a white room, and you think that something's happened but you're not quite sure what.

assuming that their hard work, not their privilege, was what ensured them their good jobs, good schools, nice houses, and pricy vacations. Born on third base and think they hit a triple

blousy white top with dolman sleeves

It's just—in my opinion—the Internet is a place where people end up making themselves feel awful, or hurting other people. And everyone pretends." His throat jerked as he swallowed. "Everyone tries to put the best versions of themselves across. To fake it. And when they're not doing that, they're sitting behind their screens, passing judgment and feeling superior to whoever they think's being sexist or racist that day.

Invite him to poetry club, Doff said with a smirk. See if he asks you to take a look at his Emily Dickinson. Beatrice snorted. How long did it take you to think that up? Most of lunch, and the rest of G block, Doff said, shrugging modestly. I started with 'read his Charles Dickens,' but Charles Dickens is a novelist. What about his Philip K. Dick? Who's that? asked Doff. He wrote the book that got turned into Blade Runner .

I'd lost . . . ten pounds? Twelve? Enough to make me believe that if I just kept at it I could lose the weight, the percentage of myself, that would finally make my body acceptable. Enough to make me believe that a man could like me, could look past my current incarnation and see the beauty that would be revealed when I dropped another thirty pounds.

A daughter's a daughter all her life, but a son's a son 'til he takes a wife, was what her own mother had told her.

Eight years older than me

Better Peter than me

For months I'd been writing, holed up in my bedroom, or doing the clichéd thing of bringing my laptop to a neighborhood coffee shop, where I was surrounded by my more attractive peers, the ones who carried on long, loud telephone conversations in which they used the words my agent as often as possible, and did everything but prop tip cups and WRITER AT WORK signs

Once, she'd cried, telling me that she thought she should have noticed, should have seen that I was in trouble, should have done something. I told her it was my problem and my job to solve it. Just be my friend, I said. That's what I need most.

Right then, at my desk, I decided that I was done with it. I was going to eat to nourish myself, I was going to exercise to feel strong and healthy, I was going to let go of the idea of ever being thin, once and for all, and live my life in the body that I had.

I smiled at the young woman with the warmth and goodwill that only the pure of heart, or the people who've recently swallowed a handful of OxyContin, can muster. "I'm Allison Weiss. Are you Beatrice?" I had gotten the call the night before, from a woman who'd introduced herself as Kim Caster, a producer for The News on Nine, the local evening newscast. "Did you hear about that mess in Akron?" she had asked.

Dave's big idea was to have a bunch of shops. Like, Me So Horny would be the town brothel, and Me So Hungry would be the diner, and there'd be a psychiatrist's office called Me So Sad, and a clothing shop . . ." "Me So Naked?

took him to a rink. Andy had watched the other skaters

my chest. All I'd wanted was for someone to be happy for me—happy with me, straight-up happy, not happy with questions, or happy with reservations, or happy but confused, or not happy at all . . . and there was no one in my life, including my husband, who fit the bill.

Oh my God,' Beatrice thought. Her mom had flour on her midsection and crumbs on her bosom. She'd been making brioche, and she smelled like yeast and sugar. It was like a loaf of bread had invaded her room. A loaf of bread that wanted to talk about sex.

She is fifteen years old that summer, a thoughtful, book-struck girl with long-lashed hazel eyes and a long-legged body that still doesn't completely feel like her own.

Kau melakukan yang terbaik yang kau bisa. Itu yang dilakukan tiap ibu.

One giant bowl of perfectly cooked ramen in rich, golden pork broth, densely packed with noodles and with an egg, boiled to just the right degree of softness, perched on top, beneath a sprinkling of bright, crunchy green scallions. She could almost taste it, and feel it in her mouth, the rich glide of egg yolk, the chewy, toothsome tangle of noodles, the sharp bite of scallion, and the comforting warmth of the broth, as salty as the ocean.

I don't answer. I shut my eyes and hold my breath and hope whoever it is will think I'm not here and go home.

I wondered how many of the guests were faking something—confidence, friendship, maybe even love.

Note to aspiring writers: This is actually not that many rejections in the grand scheme of things. I know published writers whose rejection count is in the triple digits. Never give up. Never, never, never give up.

I'm saying that it's a big decision. Your first love is important. It's part of your story The story you'll tell yourself, the one you'll tell about yourself, for the rest of your life.