Andrew is sitting on a plane bound for London when he hears the news that his father has died, via text message from his own mother. Andrew doesn’t move. It’s not as though he doesn’t care. It is callous not to get off the plane that is sitting at the gate waiting to leave. He is torn between doing what he wants, living his life without this tragedy, and doing what is right.
Resolutions are such empty things, worthy of being thrown out with the January 1st trash. Reading this diary anthology, you can learn what people really committed their lives to on any particular day. What they fought or played through in the dark, because we’re all in the dark about any particular day we’re living. 1923 may be past, but turn to the page of someone who is still living it in their diary entry.
Kevin Moffett delivers the characters of this story like a true father and son, the arguments are real, and they have a forever-binding tragedy dropped in their laps. The son is a bit of show off, like someone that screams I’M A WRITER, LOOK AT ME!. The father writes and submits his stories to the same journals his son does.
I’d come to Cal hoping to become the kind of poet and scholar who would look down on American movies with big strong heroes in them, but something else happened: I fell in love with directors like John Ford and Howard Hawks. I’d grown up in Orange County, and my father had a professional relationship with John Wayne, a great star for both filmmakers. I’d come to Cal thinking that this actor, particularly, represented all that I had hated about my life up to that point
I don’t believe animals can talk, and any writer who writes a story about one that does, is pulling my leg. I especially don’t like it when dogs talk in fiction. There is a reason they can’t talk. Because they are animals. There is also a reason why humans should be careful of all animals. Because they are animals.