I have a book contract.
And as I make phone calls and field facebook congratulations, I think of this: my father.
My father: the writer, the playwright and professor. The man who taught me to love word games and gave to me the beautiful and sacred heritage of loving language. Books.
My whole life, I have loved to read. It has been a stubborn consolation to lose myself in the pages of a book.
But writing a book?
No. This work belonged to others.
Only now, it doesn’t.
One singular stroke of divine providence (yes, this, and only this), and the work of writing a book now belongs to me.