On Writing What I Know: a Look at Fathers

A friend of mine had just introduced me to a poet. We were at a conference; I had, moments ago, finished my first book signing and was feeling fragile and shaky as often happens when I’m not sure I deserve something—like a book publishing or people lining up for me to sign it or the opportunity to write at all.

One of the poets, a short, graying, brilliant man, said, “Did the dad leave his son in this one?”

Well, yeah.

“Why does it always have to be the dads?” he said.

He didn’t mean the word...