I received a call from my sister at 11:15 last night. I could tell by the sound of her voice that she was upset. There are a number of family members who are aging and in ill-health, not the least of whom is our mother. I could tell right away that she was calling to tell me someone had passed away. What she told me stunned me beyond belief.

She was calling to tell me that my oldest nephew, her oldest son, age 22, was dead... by his own hand.

I am a horrible author.

...

That's all I hear in my head now. I feel compelled to write, to have others know my thoughts through stories I've crafted after hundreds of hours of research and writing... and re-writing... and editing... and then finally after 3 years of sitting on these stories, I let the people in my life convince me that they're actually good and that I'm an author and a good writer.

They were wrong.