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Kindle Notes & Highlights
“I love you, Anna,” she whispers fiercely. “No matter what happens, I hope you know that. Fight with your sister if you must, but I stay in your life. Talk to me, tell me when things are wrong, and I’ll do my best. I can’t lose you.”
A poem can be as short as two lines, sometimes even one, but there’s an entire idea contained there, an entire story.
The truth is art will never be as effortless as it used to be, not now that people have expectations of me. All I can do is go forward, and to do that, I must stop chasing perfection. It doesn’t exist. I can never please everyone. It’s hard enough just pleasing myself. Instead, I must focus on giving what I have, not what people want, because that is all I can give.
This book is a work of fiction, but it’s also half memoir. To date, it’s the most “me” book that I’ve written. That’s why it’s in first person rather than third, like my other books. The words came out easier when I said “I” instead of “she.” But the personal nature of this book made it harrowing to write. Anna’s struggles were mine. Her pain was mine. Her shame was mine.
I feel like there’s a conversation about caregiving that society isn’t having. It’s not something that people can freely talk about. No one wants to be seen as “complaining,” and no one wants to make a loved one feel like they’re a burden. But the truth is caregiving is hard. Not everyone is suited for it.
As a society, we need to have compassion for all people affected by illness and disability—and that means those who receive care as well as those who give care.
