It’s coming to something when quitting, an impulse that’s usually considered destructive, gets wheeled out as a man’s greatest achievement but leaving behind my safe, nicely paid job that I’d trained to do for years was difficult. I’m someone who likes an element of routine, of safety and familiarity, and backing myself to write a novel – when in truth I had no good reason to believe I could write a publishable one – required a leap of faith.
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In terms of memory and identity, a big thing I wanted to explore in the book was – if we lose the people closest to us, if we lose the people who show us who we are by reflecting ourselves back to us, then what’s left? Can there even be a self in the same way once they’re gone?
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