I arrived at my mother's apartment ready to write. As I stepped through the door, I was greeted by a small black feather, lying on the hardwood floor.I dug right in - thinking I would just start writing my book backward (which was the guidance that I received two days ago).And I am writing backward - but first, I seem to be reliving it backward. Reading through hundreds of pages - torn from journals and scribbled into the margins of books (and then torn out), piles of Post-It Notes, backs of diner placemats and receipts, scraps of sketch pads - is the most illuminating and satisfying kind of journey.