There’s a lot that wasn’t in the right order; I may or may not have fixed that. There’s a lot still to write—a lot still to write about adolescent boys. There’s so much missing, I can’t tell if it’s going to be good enough. I can’t tell if it’s going to be any good at all. I can’t tell if, at the end of all this, I will just have a different book, but not a better one. These are the days of faith, when the sound of the pen—and the tapping of computer keys—is nothing more than a hymn to hope.