I'm a grief memoirist. Fate is to blame. Fate said, "It's up to you to make meaning of the unthinkable. It's up to you to reconstruct the precious ones who have vanished." I couldn't argue with Fate.
You might ask, Grief? Isn't the world depressing enough already? For sure. But literature is full of grief. Grief and loss are universal. And wringing order from the chaos is cathartic. If you're able to straddle the monster called grief, if you cut it up and scrutinize its ugly parts, you gain power over it.
A well-constructed grief memoir isn't only about grief, either. Yes, I've slogged through the Mariana Trench of Sorrow. But I've also traveled to snowy peaks. My life has been one of learning, discovery, and love.
It's been a crazy, punishing, thrilling journey. Which brings me to the present moment. Nobody in her right mind would choose to be a grief memoirist. But in the places where grief rules, you can find its opposite. Look for it and discover its awesome beauty. Through it all, I'm still dancing, with both feet and a grateful heart.
