Some people are destined for glory. Others have to be dragged kicking and screaming out of clinical anxiety, fall in love with a charming, self-absorbed investor, and light a fire under a lifetime of inertia in order to get a crack at it. Anna—and her roommate Ray—thinks she has what it takes to be a writer, if only she would write something; instead she’s hunkered down in a magazine’s publicity department for a difficult-to-like boss, promising herself she’ll do something to get noticed in editorial one day. When she accidentally humiliates said boss in a very public way, Anna’s convinced her career is finito. Instead, she’s suspiciously given a New York City nightlife column for which Anna’s dinner at the local, bed by nine, fashion-schmashion M.O. is an obscenely poor fit. Life is never all gravity or levity; and here its mix is at its messiest, hairiest, and somehow, its most hopeful yet.