Age 32 is when a woman figures it out. At least that was true for Hannah Spring. Her job as a production designer was going great in Los Angeles. Her mostly crazy family was at a safe distance in San Diego. And after a rather lengthy run of bad ideas made more interesting than they deserved to be by her vivid imagination, she was dating a man with only one name. Her last man had needed an alias. Life was good. Her hope, like a promise-filled seed that drifts to earth in search of safe nurturing soil, was that it would just keep getting better. Then her beloved grandmother died and bequeathed the poet Emily Dickinson to Hannah as well as, well, a dead bird. Dead or alive, Grandma made sure Hannah knew about "Wild Nights." At least that's what Hannah thought a year later, after many miles and men and coconuts. By then she knew she'd never figure it all out, but knew she could figure out a lot as she went along. Which was even better.