I learned long ago that loss is not only probable but inevitable. I know what it means to lose everything, to let go of one life and find another. And now I feel, with a strange, deep certainty, that it must be my lot in life to be taught that lesson over and over again.

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 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.

I know too much; I've seen people at their worst, at their most desperate and selfish, and this knowledge makes me wary. So I am learning to pretend, to smile, to nod, to display empathy I do not feel. I am learning to pass, to look like everyone else, even though I feel broken inside.

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

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.