Sarah Bartolo

“THERE’S A PHOTO I KEEP IN THE TOP left-hand drawer of my desk, a little picture in an old lacquered frame. I used to have it out on my desk, but not any more. In the photo, you’re very young – only one or two years old – and I’m holding you in my arms and we’re standing on a hot beach with the sun shining down on us, sea glittering behind us, sky so blue above. My bikini is the brightest neon pink. I remember that bikini. You’re wearing nothing, your plump legs wrapped around my hip, your small hand pressed against my breast. And my ponytail’s slick and dark from the sea, your hair too, a couple of wet curls on the top of your little head. And I’m looking at you and you’re looking back at me, the two of us looking at each other and laughing. And we’re still just babies, both of us. Nothing has happened to us yet.”
― Julie Myerson, Nonfiction

“Because I haven’t yet learned to be afraid of journalists, I answer him honestly. I tell him that I don’t know, I haven’t really thought about it, but it’s an interesting question. It’s certainly true that part of the exhilaration of writing fiction is that you can go anywhere and do anything – and it’s very tempting, sometimes, to take yourself off to places that you daren’t go to in real life.”
― Julie Myerson, Nonfiction