I have just realized that the root of my trepidation about writing The Book is due in large part to having to “go there” and examine, relive, and bring to life some very painful memories. Namely my father’s untimely death and the way in which it affected myself and so many others. It may sound unbelievable, but I am only now beginning to understand that I have avoided fully processing this event. If I write my story the way I intend to, I will have to face it full on for the first time ever. And that is scarier than any other aspect of this project by far. The irony is that I have so successfully buried and skimmed over it, that I have fooled even myself. Until just now, when I couldn’t even make a list about my father’s character and my memories of him without blurry vision from tears and a lump in my throat that felt as if it were holding back a river of grief. Because apparently it is. I’ve been skipping and glossing up until now with all my chipper stories; skimming the surface of a vast ocean of loss, loneliness and pain. It can no longer be denied, I’m diving in all the way. I just hope I can touch the bottom and reach the surface before drowning in the sad poignancy that happens to be part of my experience. And I hope I don’t short out my keyboard from all of the salty tears that are sure to be falling. Nothing is ever as sweet without the bitter.