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.
He knows there are choices other than those he has always made and that were he to risk a bit the options could be expanded quite a bit, but he is loyal to his depression and so is unwilling to go beyond it. Only reluctantly will he be happy.
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