By Katherine Gotthardt Stop. Stop and write the ending first, the outcome of all that is significant: sunrise through the treeline, and that humble ribbon of spotlight on the azalea you planted back when nothing lived on that lot besides sand and sad memories. Write how you want it all to turn out. Not that you long to be sun itself (everyone unreasonably wants that) but how those tender petals will swell with boldness and color, thick with leaves and stems and ideas of their own, sentient in the truth that what you did mattered. Read it again. Edit if you wish. But do not delete the part about flowering. Nothing grows on its own.