She’s also, I’m realizing, just . . . me. I’ve heard other authors say they write to explore their own problems. They write to work through what they’re going through. It’s a sort of therapy. And here, looking at my own work through fresh eyes, I see. I’ve done it too. The problem is, what has changed? Nothing. My life hasn’t changed. I haven’t finished this book with a eureka moment and grown. I’ve learned no lessons. I’m still just me. Where’s my darn eureka?
