I've lost count on how many weeks it has been since my torn Achilles accident. Possibly 8 weeks now? It's all a blur. I'm writing this post in the context of having 6 more weeks to go in my airwalk boot. I've been going to physical therapy several times a week and doing my daily exercises, but I've a long way yet to go. All of this has me thinking about change. Good old change.
People might wonder why I decided to become a writer and I have a simple answer: If it weren't for reading and writing, I don't believe I would have survived. My story is similar to many others: My father beat my mother and abused drugs and alcohol. Anger, fear and uncertainty litter my childhood memories. My most vivid memory of my father's violence is of being at the kitchen table trying to eat dinner and him coming home from work in an angry mood. He saw what my mother had made him for dinner and said, "I work all day outside in the sun and this is what you make for dinner?"