Well, it’s about time.
Time for me to write, even if no one reads it.
My father regularly reminded me that I should write. This came from almost 20 years of being separated from my Dad as he worked overseas and I often wrote him heart-on-my-sleeve musings about all kinds of “life matters.” In those days, there was no e-mail. I crammed sentences onto a lot of onion-skin-thin, blue, airmail paper. About an hour after I dropped another one of my college/post-grad, existential crises (passionately unfiltered, I might add) into a mailbox, I would start second-guessing myself about being so candid with my life.
About two weeks and a mini-series worth of life experiences later, I would usually get a letter back from my father. It almost always started something like this, “Dear Greg, Thanks for the long letter. Sounds like you’re having a lot of interesting experiences. You know, you really should write more…”
Well, Dad, I’m writing some more and I wish you were here to read it…