I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. My childhood best friend reminded me that when I was seven, I sat at the little desk in my bedroom and wrote stories. I had forgotten sitting at the desk, but I never forgot how much I loved to write. By nine, I was publishing and distributing a newsletter for the kids on my block.
When death and junior high entered my life, my words stopped.
My father died when I was twelve. By thirteen, I had read my first book about death. After that, whenever someone in my family experienced a loss, or a friend’s parent died, I was often the first one there.
I didn’t choose grief work. Death chose me.