Sometimes when I’m stuck with a piece of writing I have a chat with George.
He sits on the sofa or the bed and we hash it out together. He’s tough; he never gives me a free pass. George keeps me honest.
One night when I was bemoaning the fact that I’d never write anything as powerful as While My Guitar Gently Weeps, George said, “I didn’t start out writing that, you know. I had to work my way up to it.”
Even though he’ll be gone 13 years tomorrow, he still has truths to impart.
This is for you, George.