It’s been three decades since I last saw Karl. More than thirty years since I decided I wanted to be a writer. In that time, I’ve gone through I can’t even guess how many wallets, but each time I get a new one, I remove the wrapper from the old and slip into the new. And whenever I feel discouraged or on the verge of quitting, I reach into my wallet, carefully unfold the now brittle paper, and remind myself of the journey I embarked on more than thirty years ago.

I received an email from my publisher informing me that Unsolicited Press accepted my memoir—Fire and Ice: A Nepalese Travelogue—for publication. The release is currently set for 2028, although that could possibly change.

The publishing world is not kind or accommodating to people like me, people on the spectrum who struggle to navigate the neurotypical world and form meaningful connections with others.

On the other hand, I am incredibly concerned that this new social media policy wishes to silence me, wishes to prevent me from speaking out against a woman who wronged my son. This policy is meant to protect the perpetrator by muzzling the voice that chooses to expose the way in which she attempted to destroy a scout’s self-esteem and his experience in scouting.

I hate that this question has even entered my thought process, but is it possible that I’ve asked too much of them?

Why did my commentary about the Committee Chair (amended to read ‘troop representative’) piss you off so badly, but you are unbothered by her false accusations toward G3 and her attempt to have him ousted as Senior Patrol Leader? Why are my words so egregious, but her actions are acceptable?

Now, I think G3 still likes going into the city because it reminds him of you. Saturday morning, before we left, G3 looked through the bin of hats and gloves that were once yours, looking for something to wear, a piece of you to bring with him.

Although, there is a tiny voice in my head questioning if it is wise. Has my dream of being a writer brought more pleasure or pain?

It’s so unfair that Dad didn’t live long enough to be able to celebrate G3’s success. He dreamed of his grandson being an Eagle, but died before he got to see him take flight.

But now that my book is out, now that the anticipation and initial celebrations are over, what comes next? Where do I go from here?

My fear was that no one would show up. Kati promised me that wouldn’t happen. That people would want to be there to support me, and she was absolutely right.

I celebrated my birthday. It only took me fifty-one years to achieve my dream—but I did it.

I went to bed early last night—nine-ish—and planned to sleep as late as possible. But sleep often eludes me and last night was no different. I woke up 4:54. I still had nearly two hours before my alarm went off and I was intent on going back to sleep, but after about a half hour I gave up, got out of bed, and took a shower. I then grabbed the book I’m reading and went outside. The mountain air was cool that early, so when I started to feel cold I withdrew into the lobby. I am

That means [the kitten] was only a week and a half old when he wandered into my brother’s garage, and it’s a very good thing he did because he was way too young to have been separated from his mother.

Dear Dad, Being a teacher is hard. The actual teaching isn’t, but everything else is. Sometimes, I wonder if I’d find it less taxing,...

Pickrell’s poetry pays homage to the ordinary, the daily events that so many of us ignore. She takes the time to appreciate the small things and her devotion to the Oakland A’s reminded me of my dad’s devotion to the New York Mets.

The term pre-order irks me. It's along the same lines as preheating the oven. The prefix “pre” means “prior to” or “before.” So...

Gaddis brilliantly conveys her emotions on every page, and the loving way in which she writes about her children is endearing.

Dear Dad, Today is one of those days I know you died too young. I really wish I could call you up. I know G3 wishes he could talk to you....

Dear Dad, It’s been five years since I last saw you. Last Thursday marked the anniversary of when I drove you to the hospital. At the...