A farewell

A few years ago I wrote this post about Mrs. Gruhn, the creative writing teacher who changed my life nearly thirty years ago. That's not the only time I've written about her, I know, but it's a nice snapshot of what she meant to me. Had I not found myself in her classroom that year, I might not be writing books now.

A little over a year ago, Mrs. Gruhn, traveling to visit friends, wrote to tell me she'd have a brief layover in Portland. We'd met up this way once before, but this time, she wrote, she really hoped she could meet Felicia and Squish. My family wanted to meet her, too, I wrote back, and we arranged to pick her up from the airport.

She didn't have long before her next flight, so we gathered at a coffee shop, where we ate donuts and reminisced a bit. Felicia and Squish seemed delighted to hear Mrs. Gruhn's take on thirty-years-ago Jason; Mrs. Gruhn lit up as she talked books with Squish, or about Felicia's ongoing education. And then she turned to me and asked how my writing was going, and I reported that I was neck-deep in The Dark Age, and that it could be going better. She asked a lot of questions about the hangups in my process, where I was getting stuck, about my structure and character arcs, and then told me she couldn't wait to read it.

Each book I've published, I've sent Mrs. Gruhn a copy. Every word I've written is because she showed me that I could. If I have a regret, it's that I never sent her a draft of The Dark Age. (It's still unfinished, and just as thorny as it was a year ago, but that's no excuse.)

I learned recently that Mrs. Gruhn died in early November at age 84, and as I write this, I'm preparing to watch her memorial service broadcast online.

I'm grateful to have known her. She's an important part of my story, and I know I'm not the only one. I wish I could have thanked her one last time, but she knew. I know she did.