Here are some Katherine Center quotes–gathered from around the web.  For more, come on over to Pinterest!


From essays:


You are writing the story of your only life every single minute of every day.

–Katherine Center, What I Would Tell Her (Mom 2.0 Video)


“Nothing that doesn’t push you past your limits can change your life. It’s true of work, it’s true of parenting, and it’s true — a hundred times over — of love.”

–Katherine Center, Nothing Worthwhile is Ever Easy


There is an entire universe of things my mother knows that I don’t.

–Katherine Center, Things To Remember Not to Forget


We all carry our mothers inside us.

–Katherine Center, Things to Remember Not to Forget

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Maybe the past is supposed to fade—and that’s actually a kindness of human memory.

–Katherine Center, Things to Remember Not to Forget


You can’t know what you know now and feel the way you did then.

–Katherine Center, Things to Remember Not to Forget

That’s what just hit me:  How you really can’t have everything.  You have to give up the old to get the new.  You can’t be the child and the mom at the same time.  You can’t be your young self and your old self at the same time.  You can’t know what you know now and feel the way you did then.  You can’t, you can’t, you can’t.

–Katherine Center, Things to Remember Not to Forget


Our lives disappear, even as we live them.

—Katherine Center


We build our lives in moments, and even the ones we can’t remember become the story of who we are.

—Katherine Center


The human race has a lot to answer for, and it’s not as easy to feel hopeful as it should be—but you make it more important to try.

—Katherine Center


The way that I love you makes me a better person.

—Katherine Center


The way that I love you makes me a better person, and the way that you love me back makes every sorrow worth it.

—Katherine Center


Don’t let anyone convince you that love doesn’t matter.

—Katherine Center


We are at our finest when we take care of each other.

—Katherine Center


And so my hope for you, good boy, as you grow taller every day, is that you will learn to take good care of yourself, and you will learn to take good care of others—and, someday, you’ll see how those two things are exactly the same.

—Katherine Center

It’s so easy to think that your strengths don’t matter.

—Katherine Center


Look for beauty in everything.

—Katherine Center


The best things about womanhood might possibly even be the conversations.  The chatting.  The gabbing. The whispering.  The hands-on-hips eye-rolling.  The yukking-it up.

–Katherine Center,  Kirtsy Video


We’re looking for stories that speak to us.  We’re looking for stories that connect us with something true.  But, instead, a lot of the time we get strippers.  All I’m saying is, when boys are writing the stories, the percentage of strippers is bound to go up.  And real stories about real women kinda don’t get written at all.

–Katherine Center,  Kirtsy Video


And despite everything I know now, I still believe, as I did when I was little, that there is an entire universe of things that my mother knows that I don’t.  I still believe that nothing truly bad can ever happen if my mother is around.  I know it’s not true.  But still.  It is true.

–Katherine Center, Things to Remember Not to Forget


I worry constantly about carpool and whether or not I’ve forgotten a carload of weeping children at the school gate.  How on earth does anyone do it?  How did she make it look so easy?  Or maybe time makes everything seem easy.  Or maybe I am really terrified that I’ll never become enough like her to keep her with me. I know that we all carry our mothers inside us.  But somehow that doesn’t seem like enough.

–Katherine Center, Things to Remember Not to Forget


From various interviews:

I guess that’s the upside of not being young anymore . . .   You know from experience that the struggle always leads, in some way, to something better.

–Katherine Center


I like to write about people who are real and likeable.  I like to write about people who tell their stories in that close and intimate voice we use with best friends. I love the closeness and honesty and vulnerability that come from characters who can talk that way.

–Katherine Center


All my main characters are people I’d love to sit around having coffee with. They are people who will tell you honestly about the things that scare them and worry them and trouble them.  Because those moments of connection between women–when they really decide to be honest with each other about their lives–are some of the best things in life.

–Katherine Center


Some of the greatest ideas we have come from making do.

–Katherine Center


What matters most is how you respond to your heartbreaks and your disappointments and your fears.  What matters most is who you become in response to them.

–Katherine Center


Writing a novel is a lot like reading one.

–Katherine Center


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Success is doing the right thing for who you are.

–Katherine Center


My goal is to try to be as happy as I can — going through every day just as it is.

–Katherine Center


If you feel lucky, then you are.

–Katherine Center


Look for the good stuff.

–Katherine Center


You don’t have to be perfect to be awesome.

–Katherine Center


From Novels:

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People are always beautiful when you love them.

–Katherine Center, Everyone Is Beautiful


In fiction, you can be as true as you want.  Real life is a different story.

–Katherine Center, interview


Sometimes there is no way to hold your life together. Sometimes things just have to fall apart.

–Katherine Center, Get Lucky


There is no tenderness without bravery.

–Katherine Center, Get Lucky


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It’s vital to learn how to make the best of things.

–Katherine Center, Get Lucky


Beauty comes from tenderness.

–Katherine Center, Everyone Is Beautiful


It’s always better to have what you have than to get what you wanted.

–Katherine Center, Get Lucky


I suddenly understood what it was, exactly, people longed for when they longed for their youth.

–Katherine Center, Everyone Is Beautiful

The eyes see everything through the heart.

–Katherine Center, Everyone Is Beautiful


When you love someone, she becomes beautiful to you.

–Katherine Center, Everyone Is Beautiful


It’s more important to be interesting, to be vivid, and to be adventurous than to sit pretty for pictures.

–Katherine Center, Everyone Is Beautiful


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“Here’s what I tell myself now. That it’s vital to learn how to make the best of things. That there is no tenderness without bravery. That if things hadn’t been so bad they could never have gotten so good. And that it’s always better to have what you have than to get what you wanted. Except for this: Every now and then, when you are impossibly lucky you rise above yourself-and get both.”

–Katherine Center, Get Lucky


I believe women are too hard on themselves. I believe that when you love someone, she becomes beautiful to you. I believe the eyes see everything through the heart–and nothing in the world feels as good as resting them on someone you love.

–Katherine Center, Everyone Is Beautiful

Laughter is beautiful. Kindness is beautiful. Cellulite is beautiful. Softness and plumpness and roundness are beautiful. It’s more important to be interesting, to be vivid, and to be adventurous than to sit for pictures. A woman’s soft tummy is a miracle of nature. Beauty comes from tenderness. Beauty comes from variety, from specificity, from the fact that no person in the world looks exactly like anyone else. Beauty comes from the tragedy that each person’s life is destined to be lost to time. I believe women are too hard on themselves. I believe that when you love someone, she becomes beautiful to you. I believe the eyes see everything through the heart–and nothing in the world feels as good as resting them on someone you love. I have trained my eyes to look for beauty, and I’ve gotten very good at finding it.

–Katherine Center, Everyone Is Beautiful


Text from the Mom 2.o Video:


What I Would Tell Her (If I Knew What To Say)

You are a miracle.

And I have to love you this fiercely:  So that you can feel it even after you leave for school, or even while you are asleep, or even after your childhood becomes a memory.

You’ll forget all this when you grow up.  But it’s okay.

Being a mother means having your heart broken.

And it means loving and losing and falling apart and coming back together.

And it’s the best there is.  And also, sometimes, the worst.

Sometimes you won’t have anyone to talk to.

Sometimes you’ll wonder if you’ve forgotten who you are.

But you must remember this:  What you’re doing matters.

And you have to be brave with your life so that others can be brave with theirs.

The truth is, being a woman is a gift.

Tenderness is a gift.

Intimacy is a gift.

And nurturing the good in this world is a nothing short of a privilege.

That’s why I have to love you this way.  So I can give what I have to you.  So that you can carry it in your body and pass it on.

I have watched you sleep.  I’ve kissed you a million times.  And I know something that you don’t, yet:

You are writing the story of your ONLY life every single minute of every day.

And my greatest hope for you, sweet child, is that I can teach you how to write a good one.

VIDEO: What You Know Now

At the launch for The Lost Husband, I read a short scene from the book, and then I also read an essay that I wrote a while back for an amazing project called The Prime Book.

It’s a book of gorgeous, sumptuous pictures by the photographer Peter Freed that aims to redefine what it means to be a woman in her prime.

From the PRIME website:

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The idea of the book is to pair the photos with the voices of the women in them.  Here is my essay:

The Prime Book is not out yet, but you can LIKE their Facebook page to get a notification when it is!

The Lost Husband–LAUNCH!

It’s been a heck of a week!

We had a FANTASTIC crowd at the launch for The Lost Husband this week!  It felt like there were a thousand people there, which can’t be right.  But it was standing-room-only, and Brazos Bookstore sold out of books.

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I am so grateful to all the people who came to cheer this book on.  And I’m grateful, too, to TARGET for choosing it as a featured book and  USA Today for calling it “heartwarming.”

And so, so grateful to PEOPLE Magazine for giving it a beautiful review!


It’s always a bit of a naked feeling putting out a new book.  You’ve worked so long and so quietly–and then, suddenly, it’s out there, and reviews are popping up everywhere . . . That’s part of the fun, of course–because it’s gratifying to share the stories with readers at last.  But it’s a little nervewracking, too.

I wish I could send everybody who came to the launch–or who’s given it a good review, or who’s Facebooked about how much they loved it–a heartfelt, handwritten thank-you note on gorgeous linen stationery to tell them how grateful I am.

As it is, I’ll just have to hope that somehow they already know.


“Sweet, smart, and inspiring.”



Chapter 1


My husband had been dead for three years before I started trying to contact him.

By then, our house was long-sold, his suits were donated, and his wedding ring was in a safety deposit box.  All I kept with me was a shoebox full of meaningless stuff: a button from a shirt, an old grocery list, his driver’s license, his car keys, a doodle he’d drawn on a post-it.  That was everything of Danny’s I held onto: a box of junk.

That, and, of course, his children.

Piece by piece, I had left our old life behind—though I suppose you could argue that it had left me first—and now I was in the final stages of starting over, which meant, for my little lopsided family, leaving town.  And so on this Texas-warm New Year’s Eve morning, I was following a ribbon of asphalt out to the countryside, checking and re-checking my directions while my kids poked each other with magic wands in the back seat of our minivan.

“Hey!” I said, catching their eyes in the rearview mirror.  “Those are for spell-casting only.  No poking!  Or else.”

This was about the tenth time I’d threatened to confiscate the wands.  Weak parenting, I knew.  I should have taken them away ten exits back—no second chances.  But I didn’t want to have to take them away and go through all the drama that would follow.  I wanted the threat to be enough.

We were approaching the town square of Atwater, Texas.  A town two hours from Houston at the edge of the Hill Country that I’d never visited or even thought much about.  The speed limit downshifted as we drew closer, and the rolling fields that had surrounded us since we left the interstate now gave way to barn-sized feed stores, cinder-block motels, and fast-food joints.  I glanced down to review my next step:  go around the courthouse—then a right on FM 2237, known to locals, apparently, as Broken Tree Road.

We were beginning, I kept telling the kids in a voice that sounded false even to me, “an adventure.”  Though the truth is, moving to Atwater was much less about starting something than ending something.  Because there were many hardships that followed my husband’s death—finding out he’d spent our savings, for example, and cashed in his life insurance—but the hardest hardship by far, one year after his funeral, was having to move in with my mother.

Since then, we had stayed at her condo for two passive-aggressive years, as I endured judgments on my parenting, my figure, my wrinkles, my grieving process, my haircut, and my “joi de vivre” with no end in sight until, at last, unexpectedly, I’d received a letter from my mother’s famously crazy sister offering me a job and a place to stay.  On her goat farm.  In Atwater.  Somewhere southeast of San Antonio.

Now, less than a week later, we were trading one kind of crazy for another–hoping against hope it was an upgrade.

And so the morning’s drive from Houston was not just the pavement between towns.  It was the shift between our old life and our new one.  All morning, I’d felt it—the big-dealness of it—as a nervous flutter in my chest, and I was sitting straight up in the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel with both hands like a student driver at attention.

Or, as at attention as you can be with two children bapping each other in the back seat with wands.  Because just as the road brought us to a stop sign at the town square, and just as I caught my breath at the county courthouse rising up in front of us like a Disney Castle, my son Tank smacked his sister Abby once again on the head with his wand, and when she shrieked, I hit the brakes and turned full around to face them.

“Quit it!” I said, giving them my sternest look.  “The next time I have to say it, I’m throwing the wands out the window.”

They bowed their heads a little and held still.

“Got it?” I asked, and they both nodded.

Just as I was turning back around, I heard a man on the sidewalk shout a desperate “Hey! Watch out!”

I looked up, but it wasn’t me he was calling to.  It was someone in the crosswalk in front of us—and, at the same moment I realized that, I also realized my car was not exactly stopped.  Turning all the way around in my seat had eased my foot off the brake, and we were rolling forward.

I stamped my foot back down in time to see a girl standing in the crosswalk, directly in front of my car.  She had turned her head at the shout, too, and thrown her hands out toward the hood as if they could protect her, just as we lurched to a stop, tires squeaking, less than two inches from her knees.  She looked straight through my windshield and we locked eyes for longer than I’d ever held a gaze before.

I threw the transmission into park, but before I was even out of the car, the man who had shouted at us appeared in the crosswalk and grabbed the girl by the shoulders.  And that’s all I saw as I leapt from the driver’s seat and arrived beside them: her dazed face and a white-haired guy with a mermaid tattoo on his forearm.

The tattooed guy was shouting.  “Jesus, Sunshine!  Watch where you’re going!”

But she waved him away.  “I’m okay,” she said.  “I’m fine.”

Then he turned to me.  “You almost killed her!”

I was out of breath.  “I’m sorry!  I thought my brakes were on!  My kids were fighting! I’ve been up since five!”

“Killed By A Minivan,” this girl Sunshine said, as if she were reading the headline.  “That’s not how I’d prefer to go.”

“No,” I said.  “Of course not.”

“Killed By An Ice Cream Truck, maybe,” she shrugged, as if that suggestion were less bad.  “Or Killed By A Jet Ski.” She looked down at the stripes on the pavement.  “Maybe a paragliding accident.”

My kids were back at it in the car as if nothing had happened.  I could sense the wands in motion and hear squeals.  Cars were lining up behind me.  I was just about to excuse myself when she snapped her fingers, met my eyes, and pointed right at me.

“Shark Attack!” she said.

It felt odd to brainstorm the best headline for this girl’s death.  But it also seemed like it would have been rude to deny her anything she wanted.  So I faked it:  “Yes!”  Then I nodded. “So much better than a minivan.”

But she could tell I was faking.  She let her hand drop and then she stuffed it in her pocket.

“I’m so sorry,” I said again.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said.

That’s when I realized the tattooed guy was studying me.  “Are you who I think you are?” he asked.

“Um,” I said.  “Who do you think I am?”

“Are you Jeannie’s niece?”

It was so odd for him to know that.  And I had never in my life heard my aunt called “Jeannie,” much less with such affection.  But he had me.  “Yes,” I said.  “That’s me.”

And then he did the strangest thing.  He stepped over and hugged me.  Tight.  A big hey-howdy Texas hug.  “Welcome to Atwater,” he said, when he finally let go.

I wasn’t quite sure what to say.  Sunshine was turning to leave.  We’d been in the road too long.

Just at that moment, the truck behind us got tired of waiting.  He honked—loudly.  The sound startled us all—and something about it woke Sunshine up.  She turned back and seemed to see me for the first time—seemed almost to recognize me, even.  She stepped back my direction, took my hand for a second, and ran her eyes over my face.

“That husband you lost?” she said then, out of nowhere. “I can find him for you.”


The Lost Husband!!

“. . . A sweet tale of creating the family you need.”  –PEOPLE Magazine


“There wasn’t a dull spot in this book–just a really great story about finding home and yourself . . .  It’s really one of the best women’s fiction books I’ve read.”  –Lisa

“. . . a delightful, heartwarming read, and I highly recommend it.”  -Viki

“. . . Uplifting without sugar-coating the complexities of life.” –Jocelyn

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“. . . A quick, feel-good read that you can pass on to friends and family knowing that you’re spreading around a little bright spot of happy.” –Stacey

“This compelling story about moving on and self-discovery was just amazing. ”  –Amber

“An original and compusively readable story.”  –Meg

“You won’t be able to put it down, and, long after you have, it will still be on your mind.”  –Tonya

“Beautiful story of reinvention and reclaiming one’s life after loss.”  –Carrie

“A book about love and loss and finding out who you are all over again . . .”  — Rachel

“Highly recommended if you’re looking for a good book to get involved in.”  –BeautifulSunshine

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how to make a comfort list


In Get Lucky, the main character makes a “comfort list” of things that are soothing.  Here it is:

“Things that are comforting:


Warm water on your skin.

Thick socks.




Having someone arrange your fruit in a smiley face.

Having someone refuse to examine your imaginary tumors.

Watching old movies with Mackie.”

And while I’ve never actually made a list like this, myself, I’ve been thinking lately that I maybe should.

Because having a book come out is exhilarating and thrilling and amazing.  And it has the dream-come-true quality that so many things do for me now that I make my living as a novelist.  But the truth is, having your dreams come true — though truly, indescribably awesome — can also, at times, be a little stressful.


So here is my own comfort list for this month.  (And for the record, even just making the list is comforting.)

  • Reading to my kids. (About to start Harry Potter 7!)
  • Watering the garden.
  • Watching at the garden–and all its butterflies, bugs, bees, lizards, and caterpillars.
  • Cooking dinner.
  • Listening to NPR.  (Oh, NPR! I love you!)
  • Writing the next novel.
  • Daydreaming about the next novel.
  • Researching the next novel.
  • Taking a shower.
  • Curling up next to my sweetie at the end of the day.
  • Watching my kids do dance contests.
  • Watching 30 Rock.  (So good!! MMMPH!)
  • Reading.  (Right now it’s Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project–along with a book about whales.)
  • Napping.
  • Snuggling.
  • The sound of the dishwasher.
  • Gabbing on the phone.
  • Cracking jokes in the kitchen with my husband while he makes tea.
  • Making coffee.  (Even if I never get a chance to drink it.)
  • Boogieing to 70s stations on our WiFi radio.
  • Imagining how I’d like to redecorate the house.
  • Date night.  (Eating Ethiopian food until we’re so full we can barely walk and then going to the movies.)

So: There’s a start.  Actually, the more comforts I think of, the more I think of.  Which is, of course, comforting in itself.


the Lockhart Library

Last week, I drove out to Lockhart, Texas, with my mom for a book event.  The library in my new book is based on the historic library in Lockhart–the oldest library in Texas.

It was so amazing to get to stand in the library that had sparked so many ideas in my head and read from the book there.  Though the library in the book is shabbier than the well-cared-for library in Lockhart–had to be, for the plot.

Here’s the excerpt I read in Lockhart, standing in this library, in front a a stage where Willam Taft once spoke.

The truth is, by the end of the morning, I would be very grateful that I hadn’t beheld the building for the first time in a tiny picture on a page.  I don’t know how I had managed to grow up in this town and never once visit this library, but until that morning, when we all drove over together to visit, I had never seen it.  And as tired as I was after my late night, and as warm I already felt in the morning sun, I will never forget the moment I lifted my eyes up to that building for the very first time.

I must have been the only person in the group who hadn’t seen it before. Everyone else climbed out of the caravan of cars we’d driven, gathered up cell phones and blackberries and notepads, and headed in, heads down.  But me, I stopped still on the walkway.  I leaned my head back and my mouth fell a little open.  I felt a tickle, almost a shyness, in my chest, the way you might if you suddenly bumped into a movie star at a cocktail party—some mixture of surprise, and delight, and the self-consciousness that remarkable beauty inspires.

There is no question that the objects that surround us impact our experience of the world.  Right?  Sitting on the deck of an ocean liner is not the same experience as, say, taking a seat on the subway. Standing in a field of flowers is not the same thing as standing in line at the DMV.  Picnicking next to an enormous oak tree is not the same thing as picnicking next to a stump.   Sunlight is not the same thing as fluorescent.  Inside is not the same thing as outside.  Beautiful is not the same as ugly.  These statements aren’t just opinion, right?  They’re facts.

I’m not sure if I can describe the building.  I’m not sure a catalog of its details—the red brick, the balustrade, the limestone carvings, the stained glass—can do it justice.  Later, Howard would describe it to me as a Classical Revival Greek cross plan with vaulted pavilions forming the arms.  In fact, I’d collect all sorts of words to describe it, like pediments and entablature and pilasters.  But really, in the face of something as solid and as heroic and as real as that building, words are just a little thin.  It’s like trying to sum up the Parthenon.  What would you say? It has tall white columns, and lots of carvings, and it’s really, really big.

One thing I can say: seeing this library knocked the wind out of me.  The way the look of it created the feel of it:  The shine of that old wavy glass in the windows.  How the bricks and trim and stone all came together and made it more than just what it was.  The scale, which managed, impossibly, to tower over you and welcome you, to feel both enormous and cozy, both regal and kind.  It rose up out of the little park of St. Augustine that surrounded it:  Its feet so firmly on the earth, but its octagonal dome and widow’s walk railing brushing the sky.

That said, it did need some work.  The paint was peeling, the gutters were sagging, one of the massive stone ball finials had fallen off and was resting in two cracked pieces by the entrance.

Howard did not fail to notice me gaping.

“You’ve never even been here, have you?”

“Of course I have,” I lied, falling in line behind him.  And then, “A long, long time ago.  So long ago I can barely remember.”

Later, Howard would walk me through the photos we’d take that day and explain the architectural principles that made the building what it was.  How the shapes and angles all played off each other and made relationships that were pleasing to the eye and soothing to the soul, how the arrangement of windows and columns and doors could speak to primal human needs for safety and order and connection.  By the end of the day, I would be starting to understand the psychology of the architecture—not just that it was beautiful, but why.

But at the time, all I knew was that the experience of standing before this grand, slightly neglected building, somehow, in some way, made me want to be a better person.

video: make your own luck

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I’ve just made a new trailer for Get Lucky that tries to feel a little bit like the book.

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I was super-lucky to get to use photos taken by my beautiful pal Andrea Jenkins of Hula Seventy, who is an amazing photographer, artist, blogger, and mama.  Beyond amazing, actually.

I’ve been trying to make this video for a while.  I’ve had the images and music lined up forever.  But I had trouble finding the right words.  I tried reading a few different book excerpts, but nothing was right. So I finally put the whole project aside.

And it’s amazing how, with creative things, NOT thinking about a problem so often solves it.  Or, at least, not concentrating on a problem.  I just kind of put this video project on a shelf in the back of my head and did a gazillion other things for a while.


And then, the other day, my husband was messing around online, and he said, “You should make a word cloud out of the first chapter of Get Lucky.”

Y’all know what word clouds are, right?  Word clouds lay out words from a piece of writing visually. Like, for example, here’s my author bio as a word cloud:

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And as soon as I heard my husband say that, I also heard a little “ding!”  The ding of my mind finally, suddenly, knowing with total certainty exactly what to do.  Like magic.  My very favorite kind of magic.

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spoiled goats, fresh cheese: Blue Heron Farm

Over winter break, we went out to the country to visit my childhood friend Christian and his wife Lisa at their farm.  They make  the yummiest goat cheese ever, and I’m completely enchanted by their life.  I’m totally amazed by Lisa, who is always so warm and sweet to us, and who writes a very lovely blog about farm life.

Christian and his brother and sister were big friends of mine when I was little.

(That’s Christian and me on the left–circa 1977.)

They lived in our neighborhood.  We carpooled to pre-school.  We took vacations to the beach together and, later, to Colorado to ski.  Christian in particular, and his brother Hunter, were my pals.  I didn’t have brothers, and so almost everything I knew about boys, back then, I learned from them.

I’m sure I played with other kids plenty in those days, too.  But I remember playing with these guys more than anyone else (except my roller-skating next-door-neighbor Mary Ellen).  We had sleepovers.  We squirted mustard all over our jeans.  We went on bike rides.  We explored.  We saw snow for the first time together (at age 11, no less!) I was kind of a tomboy, and I loved palling around with them. And man, did they make me laugh.

I’ve made a point to visit Christian and Lisa a few times in the past year to do research for the novel I’m writing (on sale in 2012!), and it’s been fun to see them.  One time, my daughter and I got to sleep over at their house, and in the morning we collected eggs from the barn for breakfast.

There’s something very special about seeing the people you played with as a child when you’re an adult.  It’s like they know something very important about you.  Even if neither one of you can remember anymore what it is.

praise for Get Lucky

“[A] thoroughly enjoyable girlish romp.”
– Library Journal

“Center delivers an original, engaging, and touching novel populated with quirky and lovable characters, and ripe for discovery by readers looking for a cheering read.”
– Booklist

“Center has hit a home run with Get Lucky . . . There is no other author out there who does women’s fiction better.”
– Wendy Robards, book blogger

“Center’s prose is charming and funny.”
– The Houston Press

“A hilarious and touching take on what it means to be a grown-up, Get Lucky asks the quintessential question of whether we can ever go home again. You can’t help but root for Sarah right until the end, and will no doubt laugh and cry with her along the way. A must-read.”
– Julie Buxbaum, author of The Opposite of Love and After You

“Center is a master of creating modern hero(ine) journeys, and this is one of her best.”
Book Club Classics

“Center presents a fresh take on the bond between sisters with this engaging and colorful family drama.”
– Cincinnati Public Library

“Center has a talent of giving personalities to even the most mundane characters.  She makes it easy for readers to fall in love with the people in her books.  The reader becomes invested in the future of these characters; once you start one of her books, you can’t stop until it’s finished.”

S. Krishna, book blogger

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