honey honey let me show you the way
If I was an author, I’d go into bookstores and find the shelf with my books, randomly sign one, and put it back on the shelf to be sold.
But as an adult, I also have a very different view of her life and death. This past February, on the anniversary of her suicide at age 30, I realized several things: I was older than her when she died, and oh, how we’ll never know what she could have produced. I feel so young, like my life is still ahead of me, and it made me so sad that her depression, that insidious illness, killed her. There is no romanticizing about her life now – her marriage was tumultuous and troubled, toward the end she was struggling in nearly every way possible, and the end must have been very, very bleak. She could be selfish and vengeful. Simply put, she was human, like the rest of us. That can be very hard to remember when you’re a teenager and idolizing writers that touch your bloody, tender heart.