Shouldn't every labyrinth have a minotaur? At least a metaphorical on? In the classical Greek story (which we like to call myth these days, but which was religion in its own day) Asterion was the son of the Cretan king Minos and his wife Pasiphae, who was condemned by Aphrodite to fall in love with a bull that Poseidon had given her husband. When Asterion grew ferocious, Minos had Deadalus build a labyrinth for him, where he lived––surviving on the flesh of humans––until Theseus came for slay him with the help of his half-sister, Ariadne. 

Scholars have spent their careers teasing this tale apart. The minotaur at the center of my labyrinth is much more personal, and it teaches me this: underneath it all––whatever I develop into, whatever paths this book clear for me, whatever I accomplish––

I will never be anything more than a boy

who's scared of his own father.

This fear will stand at the center of any conversation I have with any psychological professional (or shrink, as my father used to call them). Heck, it might stand at the center of any conversation I have with any human being on earth. It has shaped my paranoias, my defense mechanism, my offense mechanisms, my garrulousness, my reticence, my cowardice, my bravery. 

Everything about me relates to my fear of my father. It's a single sentence, but it feels like a prison sentence. A death sentence, even. I should say a life sentence, though, because I'll be dealing with this fear for the rest of my life––if not longer.  

1. WHAT LURKS IN THE CENTER
2. THE LISTENER
3. MY WIFE, THE MINOTAUR SLAYER
4. MY LITTLE BUDDIES