Grief Doesn't Have A Plot. It Isn't

My Daughter, Grace, Was Not Killed By A Gun. She Died Suddenly At Age 5 From A Virulent Form Of Strep. As I Stood Stunned In A Church At Her Memorial, One Of The Hardest Things I Heard Someone Say Was, 'i'm Going To Go Home And Hug My Child A Little Tighter.' 'well, Good For You,' I Thought. 'i'm Going To Go Home And Scream.'

My Cousins And I Used To Play Beatle Wives. We All Wanted To Be Married To Paul, But John Was O.k. Too. None Of Us Wanted Ringo. Or Even Worse, George.

I Was Kind Of An Outsider Growing Up, And I Preferred Reading To Being With Other Kids. When I Was About Seven, I Started To Write My Own Books. I Never Thought Of Myself As Wanting To Be A Writer-i Just Was One.

Don't Waste Your One Beautiful Life.

We Were A Family That Made Our Halloween Costumes. Or, More Accurately, My Mother Made Them. She Took No Suggestions Or Advice. Halloween Costumes Were Her Territory. She Was The Brain Behind My Brothers Winning Girl Costume, Stuffing Her Own Bra With Newspapers For Him To Wear Under A Cashmere Sweater And Smearing Red Lipstick On His Lips.