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.
The difference was her ability to say what was best and do it because it was best. His tendency was to acknowledge the fact that yet, there was a better way, but he could also temporize, postponing the action and hoping it might not be necessary.
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