I walk home from my latest book club meetup. I’m wearing jeans and a jacket for the first time in months. This late September, it finally feels like fall. I pass through the wooden tunnel beside the latest construction zone. The wooden foundation seems to shake with each footstep, but I feel safe and somehow separate from the world in this enclosure.
I look down at my phone and see a missed text from a former colleague. She asks if I’ve read her latest email. I check my google inbox, and see the email with the subject line: Roscoe’s death at 95. I quickly scan its contents and then call my friend, tears streaming down my face. I exit the tunnel and stop at the crosswalk, waiting for the walk sign.
In 2013 a few weeks after I completed my MFA in creative writing and publishing arts, a former colleague of mine approached me at work asking if I could help with a self-publishing book project. I was hesitant at first, having never published anything but my own work and feeling a bit burnt out from graduate school. But I agreed to meet this self-publishing connoisseur. Continue reading