What if there’s no such a thing as coincidence, like in an M. Night Shyamalan “Signs” kind of way? What if my book sales dropped off to zero for my memoir about emerging from the shadow of my father (after my Facebook account was shut down since July for… and I’m just guessing here… trying to promote my book). And I get one more erroneous book sale, out of the blue and after a solid month of social-media-isolation — on the anniversary of the death of my father.

The Why: A preface to the Chesterfield Road essay. The why. The question that comes when I dredge it all up, and now, after so long. For...

I never thought about suicide when I was in high school, but I was miserable. After waxing euphoric from the great expectations set at...

1989. Timing then was everything. And I found then, time was running out. Waiting until the end of next spring to get a varsity letter — in track no less — wasn’t going to cut it. I found myself calculating when I could get custody of an actual letter — sewn on my jacket — in time to be seen actually wearing it. It would have to be fall or early spring or of course in winter. But by the time track season would end and award ceremonies came around in the warmth of late spring