I haven't ever read all of my father's work, even though it's under three hundred pages total. There, I came out and said it. Do I seem more fraudulent to you in making this admission, or more honest?

I have no logical explanation for this omission, only emotional ones. I'd gone into the labyrinth intending to let logic prevail and do a full examination of every single thing he wrote, giving it the full literary criticism treatment. Examining themes, maybe even compiling all the stories (and his few poems) into a single document so I could count the number of times certain words showed up. Now the way I feel is:

poking around in his stories is like

breaking into his coffin 

and 

poking around in his bones

and I have to be careful. I can't show you everything. I can't even show myself everything. I have to be selective, because I've always been selective as I read them, and despite my supposed desire to disgorge all my father's work onto these electronic pages, I simply can't do it. I've delayed writing this chapter until the very end of the process, when I have a deadline to present a complete work, because I can't figure out what to show you and what to keep hidden. 

Because I have to keep something hidden, right? If I give it all to you, then it won't be mine anymore. I won't be able to hoard my father's writing, and the cocoon I've been able to share with him all these decades will be broken open. 

I can't have that. So I'm giving you a few selected pieces. But here's the compromise: I'll show you the ones that have engaged me the most over the years. That have drawn me back to them and have made me feel for a moment that Thomas J. Wingate and I are the same writer, separated only by the times we live in and the places we portray. In other words: I'm only showing you the work that feels like I might have written it myself.

1. A BOX OF TALES
2. BONUS POEMS TO WHET THE APPETITE
3. TALES FROM LODI
4. YARNS FROM FAIR LAWN