When something terrible happens, a lifetime of small events and unremarkable decisions, of unresolved anger, and unexplored fears begins to play itself out in ways you least expect. You've been going along from one day to the next, not realizing that all those disparate words and gestures were adding up to something, a conclusion, you didn't anticipate. And later, when you begin to retrace your steps you see that you will need to reach back further than you could have imagined, beyond words and thoughts and even dreams, perhaps to make sense of what happened.

I've come to think that's what heaven is- a place in the memory of others where our best selves live on.

I never want to feel constrained by writing a novel for a specific audience.

One of the wonderful things about being a writer is that you're constantly dredging up some arcane knowledge or long-forgotten experience, rediscovering old passions and interests.

And so it is that you learn how to pass, if you're lucky, to look like everyone else, even though you're broken inside.

So is it just human nature to believe that things happen for a reason - to find some shred of meaning even in the worst experiences?

I have a lot of empathy for women who fit their writing into the crevices of their too-busy lives, as I once did.