Oh, and Also? In which too much reminiscing stalls the story. "Joe saw Anne waiting on the corner, and immediately remembered the first time they'd met. She was eighteen then, just out of high school, walking her poodle in the wrong part of town. He was the gentleman who gave her a ride. Now she saw him and waved. He pulled over to the curb. She was wearing the same green cotton dress she'd worn when they went to the Caribbean. He would never forget that trip. The weather was perfect the first few days. Then the skies opened; but they'd amused themselves well enough! "Hi, Anne," he said, as she got into his Ford Fromage. "How was your day?" "I don't know," she shrugged, grinning. That was so like her. It was also like her mother, Joe remembered. He had known Anne's mother before he'd ever met Anne. In 1963, when he was only eight..." "Here everything reminds the point-of-view character of something else. It's like trying to leave the house with someone who keeps realizing they've left something inside. Then something else. Then something else. With this constant application of the brakes, the plot has no chance of ever getting where it's going."