Tom Petty died.
He was my greatest heart-hero. I've seen the Heartbreakers in concert so many times I've long lost count, beginning when I was a kid sleeping in my seat. I write about Petty's music in nearly every essay of the memoir I'm working on, called Dad Rock. There's so much pressure today to respond immediately & publicly to loss. Even more pressure if you're a writer to make record of your thoughts in the aftermath, to be the one to find the right words, not just for fellow grievers but an audience. I drove myself crazy for the first few days after the news, writing & sobbing & writing & spinning out. Then I stopped trying to say it all and actually let myself feel. Trying to "join the media conversation" in the first grips of very real, very personal grief does not make for work that's good or needed.
Later, I wrote this for Westword: "Tom Petty belonged utterly to himself. But when you're dead, folks can trap you in amber or a top hat."