But now I can see that the idea of Florence, her character, was conceived in my brain on the morning I first felt Sam quicken inside me, felt that almost imperceptible flutter, the suggestion of a shadow of movement. Long after my babies left my body and became independent creatures, busy and fearless, the idea of Florence remained. The idea that I could become her, that the world is not safe and yet my children are out running around in it, is never far away from me. Florence will be with me as long as I am living.

I came awfully close to not writing gods in Alabama at all. As I worked on it, I kept thinking, "I can't seriously want to write the love story of a pathological liar who isn't quite an orphan and a pet-killing, borderline sociopath who isn't quite her mother." But Arlene and Florence's storyline was the one thing I couldn't change. The parent-child relationship that blooms between them is the heart of the book.

And yes, in some ways, it is a cold, small, awful heart. It is at least two sizes too small and made of flint to boot. But once I had chipped my way inside, I found it to be rich and sweet, five times a normal heart's density.

I realized then that I had I brought the two of them together as a talisman against my own fears, against every parent's fears. It's terrifying to have your soul walking around on earth separate from you, on unsteady legs, absolutely convinced it is immortal. Florence knows that in ways Arlene and I cannot imagine, and yet she chooses to love anyway.

That choice makes me proud to identify with Florence, in spite of her flaws. And that choice means that to me, this book will always be a love story, no matter where it ends up being filed on the bookstore shelves.