I want to knit socks for the soldiers."
"It's not as easy as that," she said, looking at me strangely. "It's difficult to turn a good heel. There are competitions over it.

Honey, have you ever seen a man knitting socks?

Sometimes when you get older—and I'm not talking about you, I'm talking generally, because everyone ages differently—things you think on and wish on start to seem real. And then you believe them, and before you know it they're a part of your history, and if someone challenges you on them and says they're not true—why, then you get offended.

... a gaggle of old ladies is glued to the window at the end of the hall like children or jailbirds. They're spidery and frail, their hair as fine as mist. Most of them are a good decade younger than me, and this astounds me. Even as your body betrays you, your mind denies it.----
There are five of them now, white headed old things huddled together and pointing crooked fingers at the glass.

And then I laugh, because it's so ridiculous and so gorgeous and it's all I an do to not melt into a fit of giggles. So what if I'm ninety-three? So what if I'm ancient and cranky and my body's a wreck? If they're willing to accept me and my guilty conscience, why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?
It's like Charlie told the cop. For this old man, this IS home.

I don't like outlining, because books are organic things. Sometimes a book doesn't want to be written in a certain way.