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.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
The Wrong Dream
He works very hard and is dedicated to what he does, but it annoys him that he must do it alone. He wants help in carrying the burden of his dream. When no one asks to, he becomes bitter and angry. He feels that they are refusing to understand. He cannot see that it is perhaps the dream that is wrong, unworthy even of his effort.
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