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Since the publication of my first novel in 2016, I’ve been riding an exhilarating, sometimes confounding roller coaster. Some things I could have predicted, like the unmitigated thrill of meeting enthusiastic readers and authors I admire. Other things I naïvely never expected, like the reactions of people who know me personally — or think they know me — and their propensity to try to identify personal details from my life in my work. At times, I have had to insist that I write fiction — not memoir or autobiography.

A concrete example might be helpful...

My novel, The Atomic Weight of Love, takes place in Los Alamos, New Mexico, where I grew up as the daughter of a research chemist and a biologist. My father was one of the scientists who created the first atomic bomb, and my home — my entire environment — was steeped in science. When we hiked or picnicked in nearby Bandelier National Monument, my mother would quiz my brothers and me on plant identification and animal behaviors. My father required that I keep a cash book, noting income and expenditures with precise, error-free math, beginning at age six. I had to include entries for pennies I found on the playground, and before I would be handed my 25-cent allowance (10 cents of which had to go in the church offering), he would be sure my wallet’s contents matched the figures in my cash book...