I was just stock in the middle, vague and undefined.

That sucks, though," Wes said finally, his voice low. "You're just setting yourself up to fail, because you'll never get everything perfect." "Says who?" He just looked at me. "The world," he said, gesturing all around us, as if this party, this deck encompassed it all. "The universe. There's just no way. And why would you want everything to be perfect, anyway?" "I don't want everything to be perfect," I said. Just me, I thought. Somehow. "I just want—

We laughed ourselves silly, taking back our shared past, gently, piece by piece.

It's a funny feeling, being suddenly airborne. Just as you realize it, it's over, and you're sinking.

Writing a novel is like childbirth: once you realize how awful it really is, you never want to do it again.

Let's just start and see what happens.

You can't just plan a moment when things get back on track, just as you can't plan the moment you lose your way in the first place. But standing there alone on the landing, I thought of Grandma Halley and how she'd held me close against her lap as we watched the sky together. I'd always thought I couldn't remember, but suddenly in that moment, I closed my eyes and saw the comet, finally, brilliant and impossible, stretching above me across the sky.