In the magician’s house.


This Mother’s Day, I realized I’d never have written The Girl in the Road if my mother hadn’t died.

Which is a difficult thing to realize about something that gives me so much joy. Last night, out of the blue, it hit me very hard that while I’m so happy with my life, how I’ve built it is very much a response to my mother’s death. I know it’s not the same thing as being glad it happened. God knows I’m not. But the weepy feeling remains, a balance on a seesaw, neither side ever landing.

I wonder what my life would look like now if my mother were here. Maybe instead of writing this novel, I’d have written another novel. Or maybe I wouldn’t have become an artist at all. Maybe I’d be a pro softball player. Maybe I’d be married.

As Aslan says to Lucy in the magician’s house, Child, no one is ever told what would have happened.

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