“You do realize you can turn some ghosts away. You’re not required to help every ghost you encounter,” he reminds me.
“Can I turn you away?” I turn to smile at him.
“Stop it; you know what I’m talking about. I’m trying to help you understand and cultivate your gifts. Stop fearing the pen, and embrace what it can do for you and your life. The work you’re doing holds so much more meaning than any other writer you’ll ever encounter in your life,” he says.
“I still don’t understand why it’s me. Why couldn’t it be my sister, my mother, my grandmother, or one of my dozens of cousins?” I drop my planner on to my desk, turn toward him, and wait for an answer.
“There’s a reason for everything, but that reason isn’t always clear during our waking moments,” he says while doing what can only be described as daydreaming out my window. Do ghosts do that?