I think of my heart as a passport, and every book and every person or creature I have ever loved, a stamp to another country. To a place of discovery. A whole other world. I’m remembering The Flamenco Academy, Rebecca, Jamaica Inn, The Memoirs of a Geisha, The Lord of the Rings, Nana, The Little Prince, Eloise at the Plaza. The last two lines of Margo’s Got Money Troubles. All these words, love stories etched on my epicardium. Even the hummingbird has its stamp. Yet, not ne

I wonder if the white star magnolia ever asks itself if it is right-sized, or if its flower, the one with delicate petal-like tepals, is the correct shade of alabaster white. I wonder if it asks itself if it has enough flowers blooming on its tree or if its fragrance is the right type of sweet or musky. I wonder if the osprey dive bombs into the cove, catches a fish, then thinks, as he bats his enormous wings onto the beach, “That thing is too small, you idiot.” I wonder if

that when you are filled with doubt, it means that you are on the verge of growth? I can’t quite remember where I heard this, but as I pull out my hair on this third novel, I am choosing to believe it. I like the idea that doubt is just the door to something new, bigger, more expansive. It makes the feeling—something a bit jittery, like we are on the verge of free fall—more doable somehow. Doubt applies to so much of our lives. Doesn’t it? Will I ever publish this thing? Will