I am not a good conversationalist. I’m awkward and a little bit slow. I don’t know how to offer information up without being asked for it, and even then, the words never come out exactly right. Every night I return home and think of things I should have said and ways I should have said them. I rewrite entire conversations. I relive entire days. I know this is the reason I first picked up a pen.

A dear friend of mine once sat me down to tell me a secret, and I didn’t respond the right way. It wasn’t that I responded the wrong way, just not the way I would have liked to. I asked a lot of questions, and when all of them were answered, I sat in silence and waited for more words to arrive. But they didn’t come, for reasons I cannot explain or excuse. There…