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Outgrowing an old mythology in the intellectual sense is a first (and in hindsight relatively easy) step; bearing emotional freight is another matter. The "Bindy" for whom this book is named grew up with me speaking an ethnically Mennonite and religiously fundamentalist tongue. Despite its anathemas (or perhaps because of them), the language became a strop on which our words were keened, for Bindy until his death, and for me still to this day.
I am a latecomer to the creative arts. Arthur Miller called writing "a way of synthesizing all of one's insides." This is a philosophical tussle with Blake's Old Nobodaddy throughout 1998, the year of Bindy's dying. Partly it's a confession (scary bi-polar genre, scorned at the newsstand end and extolled in St. Augustine), but also a kind of repentance of former uses of language in my own wordy careers as a minister, counsellor, and university instructor.