My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Mona said we are both too innocent and maybe it is true, though her innocence is not so much that of the believer as it is of defeat. It is that way as long as it limits her inclination to change. It is not a protective state but a place to hide.
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