'Who's Aberdeen?' she asked, scrolling through my music. Outside the car, Spanish moss hung over the sidewalks, lending an eerie texture to the dense Southern night. The streets were quiet, and we sat inside the car just steps from the front of her house, though neither of us really wanted her to go home... yet. I have this theory that writers like F. Scott Fitzgerald aren't actually all that good, they just happen to be the Stephen King or Danielle Steele of their era; remembered less because of their boundary-pushing innovation and more because they happened to be the ones who fit the formula for mass ...