This morning, I received news of the death of my father.
If you're an author, if you truly want to be great, then privacy is not something you get a lot of, because great prose comes from the soul, and great literature is often just the act of bleeding on a page.
So perhaps the moment demands some piece of almost-poetry, some eloquent cry from the soul, that would stir echoes of the common human experience, in everyone who reads.
But I'm going to have to ask you to excuse me.
I can't.
It may be my job to be human in public, but if it is, then today I have to call in sick.
I can't tell this story. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. Instead, I must ask for your patience if I am inconsistent or unavailable.
At least for a little while.