I was having a problem with my story. For one thing it had a terrible title, a title meant to imply that not only was it my character’s last day in Paris, but the final day of her marriage. Which wasn’t the point of the story. The point was not her marriage. It was the man on the bicycle. It was the women at the next table with their elaborate shoes. I kept stripping the story down. I put every word on trial. And then, finally, I took out my favorite part, my clever part, and it fell into place.