VIVIAN RISING began to take shape a year after the death of my best friend and grandmother, Sylvia.  When once again head-on with the blank screen, there appeared a woman named Viv, locked in an ensuite bathroom, faced with the terrifying prospect of losing the one person who’d always cared for her.  She had her own unique circumstances and sensibilities, but we shared our grief and the seemingly unanswerable question:  “now what?”  As the novel unfolded, it became an ode to the grieving process that at one point or another we all go through.  Along with a gigantic thanks to the influence and support a grandparent can be, my wish is that the novel provides a flicker of promise—that the hopeful place we emerged from can once again be ours if we learn to adjust to, and learn from, the inevitable realities of loss and change.