Writing—like love—is nothing if it is not shared. Even the most private diary has an audience—an imaginary other to whom it is addressed. To write is to find words for the half-formed realm of private thoughts, fears, and imaginings, to send them out into the world as an incarnate love offering. Like love, writing makes us vulnerable and exposes us in ways we would rather keep hidden. It sometimes goes wrong and brings disappointment and a sense of betrayal. To write is to reach out in trust to an unknown other with a yearning to communicate and to be understood, knowing that one might be rejected. But the ecstasy of communion is always worth the risk of rejection.