To the novel I’ve not yet written,

I love you.

You are the bane of my existence and the thing I cherish above all others. You have plagued me, day and night, for decades. I’m kind of sick of it, but I just can’t let you go.

You spin such wonderful stories for me, my eyes following their twisting plots and heartfelt moments, like tracking dust…read more

Dear Becky,

You’re loud now.

That seems ludicrous from your position. Right now you’re small and shy and you listen to your teachers. You don’t talk back; you don’t try to think outside of your bubble. From where I’m sitting I know it’s because you’re afraid of failure, of shame in the face of our father’s angry disappointment. You’ll get over…read more