Scrivener.

"Write it out," he said. "Everything's better...you're better...when you're writing."

We were standing together, just the two of us, overlooking the Blue Ridge mountains in north Georgia. He was talking about the past, the present, the future; I was biting my lip and trying not to cry. Still, it was a good moment, a lucid moment, in a week that otherwise didn't have many.

And in that lucidity, he was telling me to write.

I know he was sincere. I know he was right. I know how often I mentally begin to put it all on paper or screen and sort it out. I know it's my best therapy.

But I don't know that he'd be happy to know that I'm writing about private things, difficult things, in a public forum.

For that reason, and because let's be honest: nobody really sees this stuff, anyway, which is a-okay with me, I'm locking this down. If you want to read it, let me know and I'll give you access, if I know and trust you.

And then I'll try. To write it out. To make it better.