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.
People hide behind locked doors. They are afraid of each other. They think they have reason to be, and sometimes they do. But someday, someone has to open up. Someone has to come out and take a chance on the rest of us.
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