|I’ve been trying to puzzle it out, to think about why I have such a giant gaping sadness about Les. He’s dead and gone. Okay. No not okay of course, never okay. But really, why does the void feel so incredibly huge and inescapable? He wasn’t my best friend or my confidant. He wasn’t the person I would call in the middle night, (which for some reason is supposed to be the epitome of true friendship.) I wouldn’t have called him if I was in jail or stuck in my car in a flood, although he’d laugh later at the story. He wasn’t a family member. Or the love of my life, not someone I yearned for. No, he played a more important role than any of those, significant though they may be. It was Les who spoke to my desire, his desire, our common in common desire to write, to get it down on the page as right and true as possible because it was and is simply the finest kind of work imaginable.