I Used To Be A Child. It

Combine A Left-leaning Upbringing With A Family With Direct Experience Of The Holocaust And Someone With Aspirations To Write And I Guess, Sooner Or Later, That Person Will Have A Stab At Writing Something About The Holocaust.

Listen- All That She Was Then, All That She Is Now, Those Gestures, Everything I Remember But Won't Or Can't Articulate Anymore, The Perfect Words That Are Somehow Made Imperfect When Used To Describe Her And All That Should Remain Unsaid About Her- It Is All Unsupported By Reason. I Know That. But That Enigmatic Calm That Attaches Itself To People In The Presence Of Reason- It's Something From Which I Haven't Been Able To Take Comfort, Not Reliably, Not Since Her.

At Difficult Times Of My Life, Books Have Been An Incredible Comfort. When I Was 12, I Changed Schools And My Parents Split Up. It Was Then That I Became Addicted To Reading. A Great Writer Can Attach Themselves To Your Mind And Heart, And You Feel You Understand The World Better. As Long As You Have The Capacity To Read, You Needn't Be Alone Any More. I Remember Thinking As A Child, "if I Could Give One Person The Comfort I Keep Getting From Books, Then I Want To Write."

What Else Is Life From The Time You Were Born But A Struggle To Matter, At Least To Someone?

It's Like The Smell Of Burned Toast. You Made The Toast. You Looked Forward To It. You Even Enjoyed Making It, But It Burned. What Were You Doing? Was It Your Fault? It Doesn't Matter Anymore. You Open The Window, But Only The Very Top Layer Of The Smell Goes Away. The Rest Remains Around You. It's The Walls. You Leave The Room, But It's On Your Clothes. You Change Your Clothes, But It's In Your Hair. It's On The Thin Skin On The Tops Of Your Hand. And In The Morning, It's Still There.