One is never too young for fine literature . . .

...Every life contains a novel.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

Every life contains a novel.

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.