Ernest Hemmingway…you are a truthful prick and you’re not wrong.

“There is nothing to wrting. All you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed.”

It’s a delicate dance. The pen, your hands, the keyboard, your head, your heart, your soul, your truth all fumbling like…

I pulled up to the house and I knew I was at the right place without even looking at the address. How? Well, the woman laying on her back, surrounded by weedeaters was a pretty strong indicator.

His head dropped when he saw the sadness in my eyes when answered my question.

“I’m leaving on Monday” he said. “Where to?” I asked. “California” he said as he fumbled with the keys…a bit too quickly it appeared. “Sounds like fun. When are you coming back?” I asked. The fumbling stopped…

As I walked towards the kids, I waved and they waved back. All happy faces and exhuberant smiles all the way around. I know the kids well. For they are all friends of my son.

I’d assumed it before. I’d told myself many times. It made sense. But I kept it to myself. Know one need know this kind of crazy. Until, now.

While on the phone with my attorney, he told me how his call went with opposing counsel. It was the usual fire and brimstone kind of assault…