So I started reading Ken’s letters, hundreds of them from Viet Nam, and they were so sad, he was so lonesome. Flying every day, people getting killed. It was too much.
But I wrote. It was, and is, hard to work it all in. I think I’ve got it, then I re-read it, and I don’t. So I start editing all over again. It has consumed me.
Carolyn calls and says, “Janie, you didn’t post.”
“I know,” I tell her. I will. In a minute--that never comes. Some day soon, I will get back to posting regularly---just as I finish editing this book about Ken. I have to do it justice.
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