Rom Commers Quotes

If you wait for other people to light you up, then I guess you're at the mercy of darkness.

Whatever story you tell yourself about your life, that's the one that'll be true.

I had a theory that we gravitate toward the stories we need in life. Whatever we are looking for- adventure, excitement, emotion, connection-we turn to stories that help us find it. Whatever questions we’re struggling with- sometimes ones so deep, we don’t even really know we’re asking them- we look for answers in stories.

happiness is always better with a little bit of sadness.

A great rom-com, I said, is just like sex. If you’re surprised by the ending, somebody wasn’t doing their job. We all know where it’s headed. The fun is how we get there.

You had to maximize joy when it fluttered into your life. You had to honor it. And savor it. And not stomp it to death by reminding everyone of everything you'd lost.

We don't get to know the whole story all at once. And where we're headed matters so much less than how we get there.

That's just life. Tragedy really is a given. There are endless human stories, but they all end the same way. So it can't be where you're going that matters. It has to be how you get there. That's what I've decided. It's all about the details you notice. And the joys you savor. And the hope you refuse to give up on. It's all about writing the very best story of your life. Not just about how you live it—but how you choose to tell it.

Poor happy endings. They're so aggressively misunderstood. We act like "and they lived happily ever after" is trying to con us into thinking that nothing bad ever happened to anyone ever again. But that's never the way I read those words. I read them as "and they built a life together and looked after each other and made the absolute best of their lives.

But it was one thing to live your dreams in theory—and it was absolutely another thing to clumsily, awkwardly, terrifiedly do it for real.

There it is. The whole trick to life. Be aggressively, loudly, unapologetically grateful.

I frowned at him like he was bananas. "I don't have anxiety. I just worry all the time." Charlie gave it a second and then said, "I'm just gonna let those words echo around the room.

Whatever story you tell yourself about your life, that's the one that'll be true. So if I say, "This terrible thing happened, and it ruined my life" - then that's true. But if I say, "This terrible thing happened, but, as crazy as it sounds, it made me better," then that's what's true.

Well, you're lucky. Because love is something you can learn. Love is something you can practice. It's something you can choose to get good at. And here's how you do it. Appreciate your person. That's it. Well—first be sure to choose a good person. But we're all good people here. Choose a good, imperfect person who leaves the cap off the toothpaste, and puts the toilet paper roll on upside down, and loads the dishwasher like a ferret on steroids—and then appreciate the hell out of that person. Train yourself to see their best, most delightful, most charming qualities. Focus on everything they're getting right. Be grateful—all the time—and laugh the rest off. And that goes for kids, too, by the way—and pets, and waiters, and even our own selves. There it is. The whole trick to life. Be aggressively, loudly, unapologetically grateful.

I fell in love all the time. Just... nobody fell in love with me back. Fiction really kind of was all I had in the romance department. But that wasn't a weakness. That was a strength. I had a theory that we gravitate toward the stories we need in life. Whatever we're longing for—adventure, excitement, emotion, connection—we turn to stories that help us find it. Whatever questions we're struggling with—sometimes ones so deep, we don't even really know we're asking them—we look for answers in stories.

Choose a good, imperfect person who leaves the cap off the toothpaste, and puts the toilet paper roll on upside down, and loads the dishwasher like a ferret on steroids—and then appreciate the hell out of that person. Train yourself to see their best, most delightful, most charming qualities. Focus on everything they’re getting right. Be grateful—all the time—and laugh the rest off.

Believing in things that aren’t real? Making something out of nothing? Connecting dots that don’t need or want to be connected? That’s what all the best writers do.

Maybe staying so busy was a lifeline out of my own grief. But I willingly made myself a supporting character in my own story.

She argued with me," Charlie went on, "and she made fun of me, and she told me I was wrong so relentlessly... that of course I had no choice but to fall in love with her.

Humanity at its worst is an easy story to tell - but it's not the only story. Because the more we can imagine our better selves, the more we can become them.

I don’t think marriage is hard. I think, in fact, if you do it right, marriage is the thing that makes everything else easier.

love is something you can learn. Love is something you can practice. It's something you can choose to get good at. And here's how you do it." He let go of his walker to signal he meant business: "Appreciate your person.

Stick with me. We'll get through it—and we'll be stronger on the other side, as all of us always are, for facing hard things and finding ways to keep going. Plus: Bearing witness to the suffering of others? I don't know if there's anything kinder than that. And kindness is a form of emotional courage. And I'm not sure if this is common knowledge, but emotional courage is its own reward.

Tragedy is a given. There is no version of human life that doesn’t involve reams of it.

There's something about a kiss that brings all the opposites together. The wanting and the getting. The longing and the having. All those cacophonous emotions that usually collide against one another teaming up at last into a rare and exquisite harmony.

A rom-com should give you a swoony, hopeful, delicious, rising feeling of anticipation as you look forward to the moment when the two leads, who are clearly mad for each other, finally overcome all their obstacles, both internal and external, and get together.

You can't bring this story to life without coming to life yourself.

There is absolutely no way to predict the infinite random forces in the world any of our choices will expose us to. How paralyzing would it be to even try?

Was this a happy ending? Of course. And also only a beginning. In the way that beginnings and endings are always kind of the same thing.

Love stories had lifted me up, delighted me, and educated me on the power of human kindness for years. I knew a lot about love. A lot more, I bet, than all the people who took it for granted.

Charlie turned out to be a blue-ink person, while I was exclusively black. FYI for nonwriters: blue versus black ink is an essential identity issue. Much like Coke versus Pepsi, or the Beatles versus the Stones, or college-ruled notebooks versus regular. You can be one kind of person or the other, but not both.

I lied to you today," he went on. "And I'm going to keep lying to you. I'll never tell you about any of this. I'm going to push you away for your own good while I'm still strong enough to do it. And you know why—and you know I'm right. If I don't, you'll take care of me just like you did with your dad—and I refuse to be another thing that stops you. You need somebody in your life who lifts you up—not drags you down.

But, it was okay. We don't get to know the whole story all at once. And where we're headed matters so much less than how we get there.

That’s why fiction,” I said, “is better than real life.

Keep your eyes on the puff at all times," I said, sounding like a coach. "Be the dollop!

That's the only thing I want. That's the only thing I can think about wanting. But guess what? I'm going to rise above that. I'm not going to ruin your life. For once, I'm going to put someone else first." He grabbed another fistful of hair. "I can't believe your life. You've spent ten years taking care of your dad—and you gave up everything to do it. All this time, you've kept a lid on that Spindletop of talent you've got. It's so wrong that it happened.

Tragedy really is a given. There are endless human stories, but they all end the same way. So it can’t be where you’re going that matters. It has to be how you get there. That’s what I’ve decided. It’s all about the details you notice. And the joys you savor. And the hope you refuse to give up on.

Choose a good, imperfect person who leaves the cap off the toothpaste, and puts the toilet paper roll on upside down, and loads the dishwasher like a ferret on steroids—and then appreciate the hell out of that person. Train yourself to see their best, most delightful, most charming qualities. Focus on everything they’re getting right. Be grateful—all the time—and laugh the rest off.” My dad smiled at us, and then put a hand back on his walker. “And that goes for kids, too, by the way—and pets, and waiters, and even our own selves,” he said. “There it is. The whole trick to life. Be aggressively, loudly, unapologetically grateful.

Plus: Bearing witness to the suffering of others? I don’t know if there’s anything kinder than that. And kindness is a form of emotional courage. And I’m not sure if this is common knowledge, but emotional courage is its own reward.

Logan nodded to confirm. "He's lost his mojo." "It's not lost," Charlie said, rapping on his sternum with his knuckles. "I just can't find it." "Yeah," Logan said. "That's what 'lost' means." "Right," Charlie said, "I was thinking of the 'dead' meaning of 'lost'. Like, 'lost at sea' or 'I'm sorry for your loss'." Logan shook his head and said, "Writers.

I had a theory that we gravitate toward the stories we need in life. Whatever we’re longing for—adventure, excitement, emotion, connection—we turn to stories that help us find it. Whatever questions we’re struggling with—sometimes questions so deep, we don’t even really know we’re asking them—we look for answers in stories.

Whatever story you tell yourself about your life, that’s the one that’ll be true.” I lifted my head to give that idea my full attention. My dad went on, “So if I say, ‘This terrible thing happened, and it ruined my life’—then that’s true. But if I say, ‘This terrible thing happened, but, as crazy as it sounds, it made me better,’ then that’s what’s true.

the bad thing you’re worried about is never the bad thing that happens.

You had to maximize joy when it fluttered into your life. You had to honor it. And savor it. And not stomp it to death by reminding everyone of everything you’d lost.

The whole trick to life. Be aggressively, loudly, unapologetically grateful.

There is absolutely no way to predict the infinite random forces in the world any of our choices will expose us to. How paralyzing would it even be to try?

Because if fantasies come true, they can’t be fantasies anymore. And then what do you have to fantasize about?

I had a theory that we gravitate toward the stories we need in life.

Focus on everything they’re getting right. Be grateful—all the time—and laugh the rest off.

Your first meeting with someone should never be an ask. It should be a give.

Because the bad thing you’re worried about is never the bad thing that happens.

Here’s another thing I accidentally figured out: happiness is always better with a little bit of sadness.

I think,” he said, surprisingly lucid for a moment, “that you’re my favorite person I’ve ever met.

You want to know why you shouldn’t be worried right now?” “Why?” “Because the bad thing you’re worried about is never the bad thing that happens.

I did a few more demonstrations: "It's all in the timing," I said. "As soon as it launches, you need to be moving into position. Head back! No fear! You're a champion!

You're not going to believe this," Charlie went on, "but I knew on that first day that I was going to fall in love with you. You hadn't been yelling at Logan in my front yard for even sixty seconds before I knew. I felt it. I called it! It was so predictable." He took a minute to rub his eyes. Then he went on. "I like you like crazy, Emma. I didn't even know it was possible to like another person this much." He shook his head. "And up until today, I wanted nothing more than to make you like me, too." He frowned, like he was thinking. "Maybe this is my punishment. Maybe you were right about self-fulfilling prophecies. All I know is, I really don't want to die. And the reason I don't want to die is because I just want more time with you.

That’s just life. Tragedy really is a given. There are endless human stories, but they all end the same way. So it can’t be where you’re going that matters. It has to be how you get there. That’s what I’ve decided. It’s all about the details you notice. And the joys you savor. And the hope you refuse to give up on. It’s all about writing the very best story of your life. Not just how you live it—but how you choose to tell it.

Whatever we’re longing for—adventure, excitement, emotion, connection—we turn to stories that help us find it. Whatever questions we’re struggling with—sometimes questions so deep, we don’t even really know we’re asking them—we look for answers in stories.

Had I really been insisting all this time that there was nothing even remotely romantic about two people randomly falling on top of each other? Because this was working. Had I just proved myself wrong? In front of the Great Charlie Yates? This was not going to end well.

No. And it takes a long time. My dad kept promising that grieving was a natural process—part of being human—and that we'd be okay in the end. I didn't believe him at first. But he was right. It's okay now. It doesn't make me sad to remember her now. I miss her, but in a way that doesn't hurt. You do get there, eventually.

Why don't we make a meal out of it?" "A whole meal out of what?" "Your cancer-free-iversary. Why don't I make a big, fancy dinner to celebrate, and we can eat doughnuts for dessert?" Charlie picked up his half-eaten doughnut for a toast. "It's a date," he said. So I clinked my half-eaten doughnut to his, and said, "It's a date.

Charlie nodded, like not getting it was valid. "I don't know how to explain it. But one thing's for sure. I'm not making you birthday doughnuts because your dad guilt-tripped me. I'm making you doughnuts because I'm grateful that you're here—for whatever you being here is doing to my life. And I genuinely want you to have a happy birthday." Ugh. One of those unwelcome tears of mine spilled over. And Charlie, like a reflex, reached up and wiped it away. Like you might do for someone you cared about. "Also," Charlie said, "I burned a hundred canned biscuits before I got the hang of this, so these little guys really are miracles." I gave Charlie the wobbly smile that happens when you try to shift emotional gears. Something was making me feel shaky. Maybe that I wasn't just a writer to him. Or that he was glad to have me in his life. Or that I was doing things to him—just like he was doing things to me. "You have to eat one," Charlie said then, putting his arm around my shoulders and turning us both toward the waiting donuts. "So many canned biscuits gave their lives for this moment." And now I really smiled. Despite myself.

They like each other. What about when she falls on top of him?" "That's an accident." "Yes, but it leads to a sexy moment." "Sexy how? She gets a concussion." "But they gaze into each other's eyes before she passes out." "I didn't read that as gazing. I read it as glaring." "That's on you." "No, that's on the script." "I'm telling you, that's a turning point for them." "And I'm telling you, that's not how that works." "Fine. Fall on me sometime, and I'll show you." "Fine. I will

And maybe, in a way, I started wanting my fantasies about the future to stay fantasies. Right? Because if fantasies come true, they can't be fantasies anymore. And then what do you have to fantasize about? All to say, I got very comfortable living like that. And everything that happened since I came to LA? It was the opposite of comfortable. And it was certainly the opposite of fantasy. Of course I should seize this opportunity. Of course I should be here and do this! Whatever "this" would turn out to be. There wasn't another reasonable choice. When you finally get your chance, you have to take it. But it was one thing to live your dreams in theory—and it was absolutely another thing to clumsily, awkwardly, terrifiedly do it for real.

I'm very pro the professional partnership," Logan clarified. "But I'm very anti anything more." "Why are we even having this conversation?" "You're lonely. He's lonely. It's like an incubator for fornicating." "You're the one who set this up. I'd be perfectly happy to stay literally anywhere else." "You'll write better in the house," Logan said. I gave him a look. "As long as I don't fornicate," I added. "Exactly!

It was all I could do to physically restrain myself from bursting in and correcting the record. I did not love it! I opposite of loved it—times a thousand. I detested it. I abhorred it. I wanted to scorch it from the earth—and my own memory, and all of space and time.

We all love Salvador," I said. "That's not the issue." "Then what is the issue?" "He's a distraction," I said. "He's not a distraction," Sylvie said. "He's helping." "He's too handsome to help. Did you see that mussed-up ponytail just now?" "Can I just remind you that the master's he's getting is to become a physician's assistant? He's a medical professional." "Not yet he isn't.

You were born to do this," Sylvie said. "Was I?" "Just Sylvie him," Sylvie said. "Sylvie him?" "Just act like you're in charge. Like you always did with me." "That's different," I said. "With you, I was in charge." "But how did you get me to do all the things I didn't want to do?" "I just proceeded like there was no other option." "Exactly." "He's not a kid, Sylvie. He's a full-grown adult. I can't just Jedi-mind-trick him into doing whatever I want." "Everybody's a kid deep down," Sylvie said. "Use your teacher voice. I bet you'll be surprised.

I smacked the floor in confirmation. "Do you think I broke it?" "The floor?" Charlie croaked, like I was crazy. "Your tailbone!" I said, like he was crazier. "Should I take you to the hospital? What do they even do for a broken tailbone—right? They can't exactly put it in a cast." Charlie had gone back to growling. "Ice," I decided then, and I scrambled over to the freezer, returning with a bag of frozen veggies and pressing it to Charlie's butt. "What are you doing?" Charlie asked. "Just—move your hand," I said. "Are you trying to put frozen peas on my ass?" "It's julienned mixed vegetables," I said, like I beg your pardon. "Get them off," he said, grabbing the bag. "We have to ice the area!" I insisted. "Emma—cut it out. I'm fine." "You don't sound fine.

Wasn’t that the number one rule of standing up for yourself? Don’t like people who don’t like you.

So we spend summers in Houston, in Sylvie and Salvador’s guest room.

I had no idea where we’d we go from here, or how we’d manage it all, or where the future would take us. But it was okay. We don’t get to know the whole story at once. And where we’re headed matters so much less than how we get there. Charlie was here right now. And I was here, too. And that was enough for now.

How does anybody become friends? He went through some hard times, and I showed up for him—and then I went through some hard times, and he showed up for me.” Then

A great rom-com,” I said, “is just like sex. If you’re surprised by the ending, somebody wasn’t doing their job. We all know where it’s headed. The fun is how we get there. Seriously—have you ever had fantastic sex that culminated in an epic orgasm and then said to yourself, God, that was so cliché. It should’ve had a different ending?

There are no words for how much I don't care.

Yes, I detested him. But I was still glad he was alive. Maybe “glad” was a bit strong. I broadly supported the concept of him continuing to exist.

As my friend Maria once said about having curly hair: You don’t control it. It controls you.

Stories exist for the emotions they create—

Sometimes things get better.

Love stories had lifted me up, delighted me, and educated me on the power of human kindness for years.

love is something you can learn. Love is something you can practice. It’s something you can choose to get good at.

So it can’t be where you’re going that matters. It has to be how you get there. That’s what I’ve decided. It’s all about the details you notice. And the joys you savor. And the hope you refuse to give up on. It’s all about writing the very best story of your life. Not just how you live it—but how you choose to tell it.

Is that you or me?" I asked. "What?" Charlie asked. "The thumping." "I'm not thumping," Charlie said. I put my hand down on his chest. "Yes, you are." Then out of fairness, I shifted to my own. "But I'm thumping worse." Why did this keep happening? For a second, I got caught up in the scientific question of it all—but then I looked down to see Charlie shaking his head at me like I was the most exasperating person on earth. "Emma?" he said. "What?" I asked, like it might be something important. "Can you get off me now?" Oh, god! His broken tailbone! What was I doing?

Yeah. I'm a pessimist, though, so I didn't trust myself, either. I always start with death in every situation and work my way backward." "Are you starting with death now?" I asked. "No." "Why not?" "Because you're here. And you're gonna be fine. And if you're gonna be fine, then I'm gonna be fine. So it's not even a question." "That's the worst logic I've ever heard." "The point is, I thought for sure I was only worried because that's just what I do. Not because there was actually something to worry about." "But then you turned out to be right?" Charlie nodded. "The biopsy came back malignant. So starting with death turned out to be the right approach.

So..." Charlie said, still snapping the pieces into place. "My mom left when I was sick, and my wife left when I was sick." "But now you're dying," I said, gesturing at the valley below with my eyes. "And another woman in your life"—I pointed at myself—"is not going anywhere." I lifted my eyebrows, like How 'bout that? Like by breaking the pattern, I'd fixed him. But then Charlie said, "Only because you can't get out." "You don't know that.

But I guess Sylvie had had enough of being called a murderer for now. There was a funny half pause. And then Sylvie said, “If my trip to the beach kills our father,” Sylvie said, “we’ll be even. Because your trip to the mountains killed our mom.

This Charlie was helpful. And eager. And grateful. And just—fun to pal around with. It got me thinking about how nice it was to do an ordinary thing like go to the market with someone and buy food for a meal you were about to eat together. The companionship and pleasant anticipation. The easy camaraderie. The incidental conversations about anything and nothing; songs on the speaker system, or the psychology of wine labels, or the social significance of Twinkies.

I decided that if I just held on, things would get better. I wasn't sure how much better, but better. And when you've seen worse better is good enough." "But how? How did you hold on?" "I just got up every day, and went to bed every night, and tried to be a good person in between.

What the hell are you wearing?" were the first words out of his mouth, as he looked me up and down. "You're practically naked." Teacher voice. Teacher voice. "I am not naked. I'm wearing a swimsuit. To go swimming." "Under it, I mean. You're naked." "That's not news. Everyone is naked under everything." "I'm not complaining," Charlie said. "That's just—a lot of arms and legs." "What am I supposed to wear? An eighteenth-century bathing costume?" "Maybe just go back to bed? Problem solved." "You can't be this skittish about a one-piece Speedo." "I haven't been around a live woman in a long time." "That's not my fault." "But it is your fault that you're standing here right now.

Don't cough, Charlie." In response, Charlie coughed again. "Hey," I said. "Are you trying to get us killed?" "It's allergies," Charlie said. "What are you allergic to? Plunging to our deaths?" "We're not going to plunge," Charlie said, like I was being far more ridiculous than I actually was. "And we're not going to die.

I love this kid," I said. "She's a role model for us all." "So I kissed her," Charlie said. "And then she said, "That's it?" And I could tell she was disappointed, but I had no idea how to do anything differently. And while I was thinking, she told me that she was going back and to wait ten minutes so nobody would catch on." "Did you ever figure out what you did wrong?" "I think I just kissed her like you'd kiss your grandma." "Oof.

But I disagree. I don’t think marriage is hard. I think, in fact, if you do it right, marriage is the thing that makes everything else easier.

If my life were a screenplay, I'd end the story right there and roll credits - and then maybe rewind and watch it again.

I had a playlist called 'Coolness,' in fact, and I just let it rip. The bands were cool, the songs were cool, I was cool for listening to it- and Charlie Yates could go to h***.

Life is always full of worries and struggles, losses and disappointments, late-night googling of bizarre symptoms—all tumbling endlessly over one another like clothes in the dryer. It’s not like any of us ever gets to a place where we’ve solved everything forever and we never have another problem.

He went on: “Choose a good, imperfect person who leaves the cap off the toothpaste, and puts the toilet paper roll on upside down, and loads the dishwasher like a ferret on steroids—and then appreciate the hell out of that person. Train yourself to see their best, most delightful, most charming qualities. Focus on everything they’re getting right. Be grateful—all the time—and laugh the rest off.” My dad smiled at us, and then put a hand back on his walker. “And that goes for kids, too, by the way—and pets, and waiters, and even our own selves,” he said. “There it is. The whole trick to life. Be aggressively, loudly, unapologetically grateful.

It’s all about the details you notice. And the joys you savor. And the hope you refuse to give up on. It’s all about writing the very best story of your life. Not just how you live it—but how you choose to tell it.

It’s all about the details you notice. And the joys you savor. And the hope you refuse to give up on. It’s all about writing the very best story of your life.

I just wanted to be happy—simply, uncomplicatedly happy—for like one evening. Was that too much to ask? Apparently so.

just got up every day, and went to bed every night, and tried to be a good person in between.