My dad shot himself in our front yard when I was eight. He did it in the plant bed surrounding the big maple tree. It was a cool Tuesday afternoon in November. According to Mrs. Anderson, who lived across the street, he sat there for a few moments looking up at the sky, then he took a handgun from his coat pocket and fired a bullet into the roof of his mouth.

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The good thing about working on my novel every day and treating it like a job, which is something I've done since returning from South America a month ago, is that I'm slowly making progress. I do a little each day. There is still no end in sight, but I'm learning to enjoy the process. I'm seeing the benefits of keeping my head in the game and how it's paying off over time. I'm learning to confront the fear I have over this thing. Not the novel in specific, but the writing, in general. So there's all that to be excited about. Which is a lot, I think.

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