You're upsetting the black Santas.

The fundamental mistake I had always made - and that she had, in fairness, always led me to make - was this: Margo was not a miracle. She was not an adventure. She was not a fine and precious thing. She was a girl.

I spy with my little eye a great story.

And I wanted to tell her that the pleasure for me wasn't planning or doing or leaving; the pleasure was in seeing our strings cross and separate and then come back together.

I can almost imagine a happiness without her, the ability to let her go, to feel our roots are connected even if I never see that leaf of grass again.

But I had to kill you, because the only other possible ending was us doing it, which I wasn't really emotionally ready to write about at ten.'

'Fair enough,' I say. 'But in the revision, I want to get some action.