I can’t remember the moment I decided to take writing seriously. It was sometime before I realized doing a Master’s degree in creative writing was as good an excuse as any to move to London, and sometime after I wrote a moderately popular Twilight fan fiction. So, around 2010. In September 2011, I brought three over-packed suitcases to Minneapolis airport and hauled my life to London. A one-year Master of Arts turned into a two-year Master of Fine Arts.

Now is not the time to talk about gun control. When blood is fresh on the ground, when the smell of gun powder is in the air, and the screams of the innocent still ring in our ears. When the panic is still fresh, and cell phones are still ringing unanswered in the pockets of people who won't reach for them again.

I used to believe that violence was never the answer. If there's one thing the last year has taught me, it's that I don't know much about anything. So many things I grew up certain of, I now know not to be true. That poverty is caused by laziness or lack of will. That the right way to approach racial issues is to say, "I don't see color." That distaste for politics is something to be proud of. That Abraham Lincoln was a hero for social justice and equality.

When people I care about are sad, or afraid, or hurt, or upset, I feel it. Another person's grief can stick with me for days, clinging to my stomach and making my vision go out of focus as I imagine what they're going through. A friend's fear can raise the hairs on my arms and neck, make the panic well up in my throat. A loved one's hurt feels like a punch in the chest, sudden and breathless. It's probably not healthy. But it's who I am.

I grew up believing in the destructive myth of color blindness, thinking that if someone asked about another person's race, the right thing to say was, "I don't see people that way". That we shouldn't see someone's color when we look at them; we should see the person underneath instead. It might be a nice thought, but it's a load of crap too.

I get off the bus and start on my walk home. It's only 6 p.m., but it's winter in Melbourne, which means the sun is long gone and the clouds have smothered the stars. My walk is dark and cuts through a shallow grassy ravine guarded by a squeaky gate that makes my skin shiver when I open it. A man has gotten out of the bus behind me and is walking the same way. I take out my headphones, cutting off my podcast mid-word. Trying to be casual, I reach into my purse and pull out my keys. The car key is the sharpest, and it's the one I hold firmly in my fist as I continue walking toward the gate.