"Think of the old people."

That's what my mom said when she opened the proof. I responded with, "Oh, come on." And then my dad chimed in: "Well, I can read it."

And that, in its tidy nutshell (think almond versus peanut), is our family dynamic.

A few more people weighed in: "The type is too small." And, "The gutter is too tight."

Sigh.

Do they not realize what it feels like to be at the precipice of a dream and then get yanked back by...by...cursed objectivity?

This morning I set out for Houston, proof at my side. Destination: Antidote, a coffee house on Studewood. Mission: Let Stephen see the proof. The radio was in weekend mode; countdown shows and strange debut songs that made my eyebrow wrinkle. The Allen Parkway exit from I-45 was closed--in both directions.

Sigh.

I found my way to Memorial and then to a side street, where I pulled over and consulted my iPhone. I have lived in suburbia for far too long. I couldn't remember the order of the cross-streets off Washington. I oriented myself and continued, driving past the real location of the fictional museum in my book. The parking lot at Antidote was full. I created a space on yet another side street and then found Stephen.

I handed him the proof.

He opened it.

"The type is too small," he declared. "And the gutter is too tight."

And so we will resubmit, after all. Good news: We will have it submitted by Monday. Bad news: Another delay.

You realize, of course, this is killing me.