I traveled down to Monroe Harbor to write.  It was summer 1988, and I lived in Chicago.  Listening to the boats clank, I lay on the slope above Lake Michigan.  I pulled out the script of Ceremonies.  It was the last draft upon which I had worked.  I had not looked at it in a few years.  I had gotten lost in another manuscript.  The new book was about the draft resistance during the Vietnam War.  Suddenly I realized that I had to let go of the structure for Ceremonies, the one I loved so much.  It had to be chronological.  I stuck the script back in my bag.