Colleen Hoover Verity Quotes

I think the idea of me is better than the reality of me.

No one is likable from the inside out.

Find what you love and let it kill you.

I wasn’t heroic. I wasn’t simple. I was difficult. An emotionally challenging puzzle he wasn’t up for solving.

What you read will taste so bad at times, you’ll want to spit it out, but you’ll swallow these words and they will become part of you, part of your gut, and you will hurt because of them.

The world was her manuscript. No surface was safe.

It’s what you do when you’ve experienced the worst of the worst. You seek out people like you…people worse off than you…and you use them to make yourself feel better about the terrible things that have happened to you.

Most people come to New York to be discovered. The rest of us come here to hide.

the things lurking around inside the mind can be just as dangerous as tangible threats.

I stretch truths where I see fit. I’m a writer.

I was difficult. An emotionally challenging puzzle he wasn’t up for solving. Which was fine. I wasn’t in the mood to be solved

The good thing about sins is they don’t have to be atoned for immediately,

I was good at spewing bullshit. It's why I became a writer.

It’s natural, to assume the worst in people, even if that assumption is only for a split second

A writer should never have the audacity to write about themselves unless they’re willing to separate every layer of protection between the author’s soul and their book. The words should come directly from the center of the gut, tearing through flesh and bone as they break free. Ugly and honest and bloody and a little bit terrifying, but completely exposed.

Some families are lucky enough to never experience a single tragedy. But then there are those families that seem to have tragedies waiting on the back burner. What can go wrong, goes wrong. And then gets worse.

I needed for the imaginary version of my world to be darker than my real world. Otherwise, I would have wanted to leave them both.

One should only walk away from an autobiography with, at best, an uncomfortable distaste for its author.

The kiss was full of both desire and respect—two things a lot of men didn’t seem to know could go hand in hand.

My mother used to say that houses have a soul, and if that is true, the soul of Verity Crawford’s house is as dark as they come.

Your writing matters to me, Lowen.

I don’t want to call him an asshole. He’s a little kid, and he’s been through a lot. But I think he might be an asshole.

And that’s how easy it is for a writer to pretend to be someone they aren’t.

Here, I’m invisible. Unimportant. Manhattan is too crowded to give a shit about me, and I love her for it.

It was amazing how different sex felt when a person used more than their body. I involved my heart and my gut and my mind and my hope. I fell in that moment. Not in love. I just…fell.

And that’s why I stay at home and write. I think the idea of me is better than the reality of me.

If this bitch turned off that goddamn television, I’m walking out that front door without shoes on and I’m never coming back.

I’m the awkward writer who posts a picture of my book and says, “It’s an okay book. There are words in it. Read it if you want.

No matter which way I look at it, it’s clear that Verity was a master at manipulating the truth. The only question that remains is: Which truth was she manipulating?

I wanted him to panic, to worry, to feel bad for me, to cry for me. To cry for me.

If we were friends, I would do something to comfort him. Maybe grab his hand and hold it. But there’s too much inside me that wants to be more than his friend, which means we can’t be friends at all. If an attraction is present between two people, those two people can only be one of two things. Involved or not involved. There is no in-between.

You can’t look at someone the way he looked at me—with the entirety of his past—without also imagining the future.

If an attraction is present between two people, those two people can only be one of two things. Involved or not involved. There is no in-between.

I’ve heard of Resting Bitch Face, but I relate more to Resting Bored Face.

when a person finds someone who makes all the negativity in their lives disappear, it’s hard not to feed off that person.

It’s what you do when you’ve experienced the worst of the worst. You seek out people like you… people worse off than you… and you use them to make yourself feel better about the terrible things that have happened to you.

Take care of your physical being. Feed it what it needs, not what the conscience tells you it wants. Giving in to cravings of the mind that ultimately hurt the body is like a weak parent giving in to her child. “Oh, you had a bad day? Do you want an entire box of cookies? Okay, sweetie. Eat it. And drink this soda while you’re at it.” Caring for your body is no different from caring for a child. Sometimes it’s hard, sometimes it sucks, sometimes you just want to give in, but if you do, you’ll pay for the consequences eighteen years down the road.

One more chapter and I’ll stop. That’s it.

Don’t focus on why you’re playing the game. Just focus on the finish line.

I hear the crack of his skull before the spattering of blood reaches me.

As much as I try to forget where it all started to go wrong, I was cursed with this mind that never forgets a single thing.

With every day that passed, that first night with him was further validated. And that’s what love at first sight is. It isn’t really love at first sight until you’ve been with the person long enough for it to become love at first sight.

I find that comforting—that being alone with me in the room still feels like being alone to him.

And that’s what love at first sight is. It isn’t really love at first sight until you’ve been with the person long enough for it to become love at first sight.

I can't explain the mind of a writer to you, Jeremy. Especially the mind of a writer who has been through more devastation than most writers combined.

But there is no light where we're going. This is your final warning. Darkness ahead.

Caring for your body is no different from caring for a child. Sometimes it’s hard, sometimes it sucks, sometimes you just want to give in, but if you do, you’ll pay for the consequences eighteen years down the road.

Have you ever heard of people referred to as Chronics?” he asks. I shake my head. “I think Verity might have made up the term. After our daughters died, she said we were Chronics. Prone to chronic tragedy. One terrible thing

but at least it wasn’t my skull that exploded on someone else’s shirt. Silver lining.

Death by routine

Those were thoughts I couldn't admit to him, of course. I might have been obsessed with him, but a woman knows if she wants to keep a man forever, she has to act like she could get over him in a day.

It was as if I’d been standing on the edge of a cliff my whole life, and finally, after meeting Jeremy, I felt confident enough to jump. Because—for the first time in my life—I felt confident that I wouldn’t land. I would keep flying.

It was fascinating, seeing how Verity always writes from the antagonist’s point of view.

Sharing a kiss that intimate with a stranger was like saying, "I don't know you, but I believe I would like you if I did.

I haven’t read any of them, either. Not since her first book.” I spin and look at him. “Really?” “I didn’t like being inside her head.

The good thing about sins is they don't have to be atoned for immediately.

I’m beginning to think Verity writes from a villainous point of view because she’s a villain. Being evil is all she knows.

Was it my destiny from the beginning to suffer such a tragic end? Or is my tragic end a result of poor choices rather than fate?

Miscarriages were just as easy to fake as pregnancies.

An autobiography encouraging the reader to like the author is not a true autobiography. No one is likable from the inside out. One should only walk away from an autobiography with, at best, an uncomfortable distaste for its author. I will deliver.

It's hard sometimes – remembering they aren't here anymore.

I hope you'll find it in you to forgive me. I hope you'll find it in you to forgive yourself.

I was good at spewing bullshit. It’s why I became a writer.

I’m fair skinned, and anytime I get nervous or worked up or embarrassed, my skin tells on me, erupting in angry red splotches.

He stared down at me, our mouths thisclose, and I could swear he was already imagining what life with me would be like. You can’t look at someone the way he looked at me—with the entirety of his past—without also imagining the future.

People get married assuming they’ll live long, happy lives together. What happens when one of those is cut short, but the other is expected to live out those vows for the rest of their life?

I’m sure it’s mostly in my head, but that doesn’t put me at ease, because the things lurking around inside the mind can be just as dangerous as tangible threats.

the only nourishment for my soul had been ripped from me.

Any parent in his position would have done the same. Should have done the same.

I’m here to discuss the first thing my baby ever stole from me. Jeremy.

Find what you love and let it kill you.” - Charles Bukowski

the exact definition for psychopath. I scroll through every personality trait. Pathological liar, cunning and manipulative, lack of remorse or guilt, callousness and lack of empathy, shallow emotional response.

but a woman knows if she wants to keep a man forever, she has to act like she could get over him in a day.

I was difficult. An emotionally challenging puzzle he wasn't up for solving. Which was fine. I wasn't in the mood to be solved.

I wonder how long it lasts. Or if it'll always be this way.

I think we both just want that part of our lives to be over. Gone. Forgotten.

He seemed a little reserved and quiet, but now I realize all the quiet parts of him are just grief.

It has to be confusing, falling in love with a writer’s words before you meet the actual writer. Some people find it difficult to separate a character from the individual who created them.

I fell in that moment. Not in love. I just…fell. It was as if I’d been standing on the edge of a cliff my whole life, and finally, after meeting Jeremy, I felt confident enough to jump. Because—for the first time in my life—I felt confident that I wouldn’t land. I would keep flying.

Sure, it was only temporary, but you can't take away someone's only means of survival and expect them to function on their own. That's how I felt, anyway – like the only nourishment for my soul had been ripped from me.

It seems to be getting worse at night, nocturnal and intense. I'm sure it's mostly in my head, but that doesn't put me at ease, because the things lurking around inside the mind can be just as dangerous as tangible threats.

It’s an okay book. There are words in it. Read it if you want.

Don't focus on why you're playing the game. Just focus on the finish line.

Yet…even with my generous warning…you’re going to continue to ingest my words, because here you are. Human. Curious. Carry on.

It's as if she were an egg, cracked open and poured out, and all that's left are the tiny fragments of hard shell.

It’s what you do when you’ve experienced the worst of the worst. You seek out people like you… people worse off than you… and you use them to make yourself feel better about the terrible things that have happened to you. I swallow before I speak, because

I was obsessed. I was obsessed with his laugh, with his cock, with his mouth, with his skill, with his stories, with his hands, with his confidence, with his gentleness, with a new and intense need to please him.

...It's what you do when you've experienced the worst of the worst. You seek people like you... people worse off than you...and you use them to make yourself feel better about the terrible things that have happened to you.

As soon as Corey figured out that I wasn’t the person my character was based on, he realized we weren’t compatible. I wasn’t heroic. I wasn’t simple. I was difficult. An emotionally challenging puzzle he wasn’t up for solving.

I was difficult. An emotionally challenging puzzle he wasn’t up for solving. Which was fine. I wasn’t in the mood to be solved.

Such an ass. But he’s good in bed, like most assholes.

No one is likeable from the out.

Everything about him is exactly what I needed tonight. His voice is calm and caring, and his arms are protective, and his presence is comforting.

A writer should never have the audacity to write abut themselves unless they are willing to separate every layer of protection between the authors soul and their books.

With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.” –Desiderata by Max Ehrmann

you fuck with the machine, you will die. If you neglect the machine, you will die. If you assume your conscious can outlive the machine, you will die shortly after learning you were wrong.

For me, there are three steps to completing each of my books. 1) Start the book and hate everything I write. 2) Keep writing the book despite hating everything I write. 3) Finish the book and pretend I’m happy with it. There’s never a point in my writing process where I feel like I’ve accomplished what I set out to accomplish, or when I believe I’ve written something everyone needs to read.

The state of my life is irrelevant in a place this size. There are far more people here with stories much more pitiful than mine. Here, I'm invisible. Unimportant. Manhattan is too crowded to give a shit about me, and I love her for it.

People like me belong in overpopulated cities. The state of my life is irrelevant in a place this size. There are far more people here with stories much more pitiful than mine. Here, I’m invisible. Unimportant. Manhattan is too crowded to give a shit about me, and I love her for it.

writer should never have the audacity to write about themselves unless they’re willing to separate every layer of protection between the author’s soul and their book. The words should come directly from the center of the gut, tearing through flesh and bone as they break free. Ugly and honest and bloody and a little bit terrifying, but completely exposed. An autobiography encouraging the reader to like the author is not a true autobiography. No one is likable from the inside out.