Breathing Underwater

The other day, a friend asked me if I ever think about death. I laughed. Then I told her that's like asking me if I breathe. I think about death. A lot. I always have. I don't think I do it in a bizarre, macabre way. I mean, I don't think about ways to die (or ways to make others die). I'm not a weirdo. Well, not about this stuff, anyway. But the idea of death has always held a certain fascination for me. Give me a good murder mystery any day (I really think I was a homicide detective in previous life). And in nearly every piece of fiction I've ever written, someone dies. I learned early that, in writing, death equals drama and drama makes for good stories. The tragedy of a life cut short, the searing pain of loss... it's hard to look at... and it's hard to look away. I do so love my stories. But I think about death a lot in my real life, too. Like many, I have dealt with loss since I was young. I watched people I loved deal with it, usually quite stoic