Something is missing. Something has been lost. I believe this is at the heart of why I write. For a while, during the same time I found myself unable to read, I wasn’t sure whether I’d be able to write again—just one of the many uncertainties of that spring. (Not a writer I know who didn’t experience the same.) But the feeling has survived and will not go away: I want to know why I feel as though I have been mourning all my life.
