Elin Hilderbrand

What happened when we died? How were we to know that death wasn't as profound an adventure as life was?

Fear gripped her like hands around the neck, the way it could only happen in an unfamiliar room in the pitch black of night.

She had thought that 'depression' would be like sitting in a rocking chair and not being able to make it move. She had thought it would descend over her like a fog, turning things fuzzy, coloring them gray. But depression was active, it paced back and forth wringing its hands. She couldn't stop thinking; she couldn't find her way free from apprehension.

Meredith immersed herself in the novels. For some reason, fiction hit on the meaning of life so much more concisely than real life itself did.

Nothing was a natural predator of productive fiction writing like the cell phone. Ditto the laptop. As she had well learned, the laptop could destroy a day.

...Every life contains a novel.

One is never too young for fine literature . . .

With this in mind, Ava tells herself to be present and celebrate the holiday instead of wishing it was over. After all, one is given only a certain number of Christmases in one's life.

Every life contains a novel.

I want an ending when the woman is happy instead of good.