She struggled for weeks and hated every sentence she produced. Every time she sat down to start typing, the memory of how much The Sea Around Us had shaped her life paralyzed her. The depth and beauty of that book was like some angry water god. But as the weeks of writing went by, she stopped competing with that masterpiece. She shed her self-consciousness about words and began to write as if she were young again, talking to her friends, letting them in on the secret of an enchanted world that she had stumbled on by accident,
