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I wrote my memoir out of a need to free feeling, but sweeping more broadly, I wrote out of loss: Because I grew up mostly overseas, moved from country to country—and lost worlds—the past is almost too precious to me.  So, I wrote in order to grieve.  Relatedly: in a sense, when it came down to it, I wrote a memoir in order to be real.  To exist.  When you leave so many places, and selves, across seas, you’re left not sure all that—all that you–existed.  Sometimes it seems as though you have melted, like salt, disappeared into all those oceans you traversed.  It is a deep comfort to see one’s life written, like the inscriptions on the Rosetta Stone: Before did exist.

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