You can do anything in a story. And people can absolutely call you on your shit.
I wanted readers to have a conclusion of sorts, even if in my mind the story wasn't finished.
I've seen too much, and I've lost too many. And too much of me still wants to fix it.
We're all important. All of us. Even if we're not princesses at heart.
I have this theory that in a good marriage, conflict shows up when you forget you know who this other person is.
I desperately want to write but you're going to have to put up with this mélange of nonsense instead.
Memories can be a choice, sometimes.