I’ve often considered fiction as a way to get out my worst fears, to put a mortifying or scary way of being onto the page, so that I won’t actually have to live it.
There are as many ways to grow up as there are people, which is what makes these individual coming-of-age stories infinitely interesting and relatable.
Let someone bang her champagne glass with the pretty cutlery your in-laws gifted you. Or bang your own.
She’s the kind of person who adapts to a broken thing instead of figuring out how to fix it.