Quotes About Lisa Jewell

I write in cafes, never at home. I cannot focus at home, am forever getting off my chair to do other things. In a cafe, I have to sit still, or I'll look a bit unhinged.

There's a weird contrast between my usual daily routine and then my book coming out. It's like someone's just suddenly opened the curtains in a dark room, and everyone's looking at you.

My father was a self-employed textile agent, and the shop below his office was an art gallery.

'Ralph's Party' was supposed to be a psychological thriller, but I fell in love with all my characters and wanted only the best for them.

I don't really get into a writing routine until March or April, when I'll write a few hundred words a day, often in a cafe in the morning after the school run.

You have anxiety?" "No. But I told them I did and they said I could bring my dog.

and she knows that she is somehow being diminished, that the care she is being shown by Scarlett is warped and wrong, that Scarlett has been taught how to love by people who don't know how to love and that everything she thinks is good is actually bad

Sophie's gut reaction had been no. No no no no no. She was a Londoner. She was independent. She had a career of her own. A social life. Her family lived in London.

mean, Jesus Christ, when you saw me in the pharmacy that first time, I was a total mess. I had a hangover, and I was waiting for the morning-after pill, for God's sake.

Your father was not a boss-eyed sailor. Or a rapist. He was a legend.

had been attracted by Josie's slight weirdness: the denim, the old husband, the clipped, detached way in which she spoke. It would be easy to assume that all her weirdness was a result of having spent her childhood with a narcissistic mother and her adult life with a man like Walter. But what if the weirdness was innate?

Yet somehow she found herself embroiled in a Bohemian, self-centred family like the Jacqueses. How did it happen? When did it happen? And why did it end the way it appears to have ended?

Then the light had gone and they'd dissipated like death stars falling away from the sun.

All men are weak, That's the whole bloody trouble with the world. Too weak to love properly. Too weak to be wrong.