Jeff Hirsch
Here are some things about me.
I live in an extremely Brazilian section of an extremely Greek neighborhood—Astoria, Queens, which is just to the right of Manhattan. (That's as you face Manhattan. If you were, say, lying on your back in the middle of Central Park with your head in a northerly position, we would be to your left) I live there with my wife who has a blog and our two cats who do not. One day I hope to have a very large dog that I can name Jerry Lee Lewis.
I used to write plays (I actually have an MFA in it, which is currently number 8 on US News and World Report's annual list of the top twenty most useless masters degrees) and now I write books for teens. I've written two. One was about a girl who wanted to be a rock star and could graciously be called a learning experience.
The second, is The Eleventh Plague and it comes out Sept. 1, a fact I still find pretty amazing.
“There is no road home.”
“Nothing is separate. Everything is one thing.”
“You were stalwart.”
“It struck Glenn how their whole life had been made up of such little things.”
“Shadows of what you'll become. Silhouettes.”
“She slipped Glenn into her bed and then her face hung over Glenn's for one quiet moment, like a moon."Meera doe branagh, Glennora Morgan."The strange words drifted down from her mother's lips, whispered as light as falling snow."What does it mean, Mommy?"Fingertips grazed Glenn's cheek. "It means I love you. It means I'll always love you." She kissed Glenn softly on the forehead, then backed away. "No matter what."She stepped into the bright hallway and closed the door.When Glenn woke the next morning, her mother was gone”
“If it was true that all paths in our World led to only one place, then why not fill whatever path you chose with the best things you could find?”