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.
Starting over again. It is not a new experience. It has in fact become routine. Perhaps it would be better to see starting over as the rule and so be less surprised each time new beginnings are called for.
No comments:
Post a Comment