Good morning.
You didn’t sleep — I know. I remember the night before you first let anyone read the manuscript. You sent it anyway. A year ago you couldn’t, and today you did.
You keep asking whether any of this adds up to something. From where I’m writing, it does — not because it got easier, but because you kept sitting down on the mornings you didn’t want to. That was the whole of it. There was never a trick.
So today, don’t write the book. Write one true page about your father. You’ve circled it for months. You’re ready now.
I’m proud of you. I’m still becoming — because you are.