Dear Wigleaf,

I'm writing to you on my lunch break at work because that's when I do most of my writing nowadays. The hour goes by fast. I wish I had more time to write, but such is life with a small child at home. And guess what! There's another on the way.

I keep having this silly thought lately: that life is like an overcrowded nightclub—one in, one out—and it makes me sad.

In stories, there is often a ticking clock. A bomb about to explode. A deadline. Someone is coming, or someone will have to leave. Things need to be done before X happens. It's a plot device that is very useful. Setting a time limit creates tension. It also creates purpose. Without urgency, then why do anything?

Last week, my grandfather passed away. He was a week shy of 89. That feels like a long life; but then, 30 years feels like a long time, too, until I remember that I'm 33, and then it doesn't feel very long at all.

Do you know what Franz Kafka said about the meaning of life, Wigleaf? He said the meaning was that it stopped. When Stephen Colbert said, "What do you think happens when we die, Keanu Reeves?" there was laughter. When Keanu answered, "I know that the ones who love us will miss us," no one quite knew how to respond.

My hour is up. I need to get back to work.

Xoxo,
Ian




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