[Insert Thoughts Here]

A few years ago I took a writing class designed to teach one to write literature for children and adolescents. We were to being to write a novel, at least several chapters, in no particular order--evidence of climbing action, climax, resolution, and all that jazz.

I had written a significant portion of the story. I read full chapters of it to classmates and exchanged criticisms. I didn't have the heart to tell the individuals I worked with that only half the words were really mine. I recorded, verbatim, actual conversations I had had in real life, in regards to someone "important."

I had felt like I had moved on, at least, moved on enough to record what I had experienced in order to make sense of it. It was true, I was past the hurt and the regret, and the feelings of self doubt and despair. However, I couldn't bring myself to understand what was next for me--uh, I mean, for Merrick.

We'd share segments of our writing and the girls in my group would inquire as to whether or not Merrick and Cam would end up together. I'd pause and think, pretending the story was not reality but something entirely of my imagination. Then simply I would reply, "No." It never seemed to satisfy.

Then it happened, one afternoon, while meeting with my professor to share ideas. She remarked on my progress and then asked if I had any specific concerns. I had.

"I don't know how to end the story so the reader is satisfied," I reported. Ending a story I hadn't written myself was apparently a difficult task. I can't invent reality.

She thought for a moment, and then she said, "I like your main character. She's quirky, but well-grounded. She's thoughtful and strong-willed. Her weakness is evident but not annoying."

Her weakness? It echoed through my mind. She was, after all, dissecting my personality through the character I had created.

"Merrick, can't get over the past. She doesn't appreciate what she has before her, until after it's gone, and then she wants it back. I don't want Merrick to find someone and be happy. I think that's a cheesy ending, and I don't think she's ready for it so soon. All we need as readers, is to know that she finally understands how she needs to change, see evidence of that change, and know that she'll be OK."

I was dumbfounded. I hadn't realized myself what was so obvious to everyone else. And, there it was, embedded in the words I had penned myself about myself for myself.

Just get over it. It's easier said than done, however, I'll say what I've said a few times before, "I'm over it."

With each new catastrophe I refuse to dwell upon for longer than 24 hours, I see it--evidence that I've changed--and I know that I'll be OK.

...

So, this is how the story will end--with healing. Healing may be requisite to new love--Not brought about by it, as I had hoped...you had hoped, for the sake of happily ever after.

There will be love again, but not in the foreseeable future, or in the pages of this book. It will be found in that which I cannot comprehend--I cannot predict.

There is hope, and, there is happiness. That is enough.

...

He asked her once, "How can things be so right, and then wrong in a moment?" I still do not know the answer.

I believe he does.

...

A mouse cannot marry a princess--No. But, reader, the mouse, who had honoured her, will always be honoured by her for the good that he did. And, even after he has found happiness in one he can marry, she too--

She too can find it.

She will find it, because of him.