I write so I may pass the things I feel important, in story. To my daughter. If, tomorrow, I am no longer here to do so.
See, before, at a time beyond me now, I was someone different. A man blanketed, suffocating on the threads, I’d spun around myself. This year was about breaking out of that web, sloughing away the tendrils that clung. Worry, fear, and jealousy had grown to me like vines to a tree, but I didn’t let those vines choke the life from the hands that could pull me free. I rewrote myself. Now, I grow trees in the adultwood of others in need.
—Adam West, “A Long Silence”