waste of ink
I told Dad I wanted to write my next book about him and he replied, “That’d be a waste of ink.” I shook my head and joked, “No way. But, see. We already got our title—Waste of Ink.” He laughed his big explosive laugh and changed the subject. I’ve since tried to get him to talk about himself and his life before I was born, but he’s evaded most of my questions. Sometimes he will let me scratch the surface of his solo hitchhiking trips across the country or the adventures he used to have with his brother, but I can always feel him holding back. He rushes through the stories like getting to the end of them is the point, rather than the point being in the stories themselves. I wish he could see the value of the life he’s lived. I wish he could see himself like I do. I wish he could see that he is worth writing about, that he is worth knowing. I’m writing about him anyway. With the small glimpses he’s gifted me, I’m crafting a work of fiction. My character is both a mix of him and of me, which seems fitting as so much of him is in me and in one or another, pieces of him come out in not only my writing but also in my living.