I realize as Joan Didion said, how just something slight can move you into the vortex of grief. How life depends on resisting the vortex. I write thinking I have done it, turned shock into words, and then the writing itself undoes me. I will find myself weeping at the kitchen table, which is as close to a desk as I have ever had. I have made those days, those weeks, that period of time into something to write about. Have I become a writer so that I could do something with those days, weeks, months? This book, too, a way to shape the chaos, the formlessness of grief into something else.
Committed, Suzanne Scanlon