When I started writing this page, I called it "Will I ever write about my sons?" Then I realized just how much I had already––outside this labyrinth, and often prior to it––and I had to alter my title. 

My instinct is to say "very little," but this is probably attempt at self-protection. It's also a lie, as you can see from the path below that contains things I've written about my sons that exist independent of this project. 

Poetry seems safe. Lots of people write poems about their children, and they aren't considered monsters. Nonfiction isn't terrible as long as I'm telling the truth, though I cringe at the thought of my sons reading what happened on that bad day in Boston (especially Landon, who bore the brunt of my anger in that moment and may not want to be reminded of it). I've written about Lucas' diabetes, and the closes thing I've written to an environmental essay features his name in its title. I made one little film with them in it, and am certain I'll make more. Does that count as writing? Yes. 

But I'm avoiding the big question here: What about fiction? There's the big question, since fiction has been my primary metier for as long as I've conceived of myself as a writer. Most of my father-wrestling has come in the form of fiction, so does that mean my son-wrestling will come in that form as well? 

Not necessary, Steve, I tell myself. You wrestled with your father in fiction because he wasn't alive. But your sons are. You can wrestle with them whenever you want to. 

1. ONE MORE FRUIT FOR THE BASKET
2. DIRT FARMER LUCAS
3. A BAD DAY IN BOSTON
4. BANK SHOT
5. TRUTHS OF MY CHILDREN
6. OCTET IN PRAISE OF EARTH'S PERFUME