Why this book. Why now.

This has been the hardest year of my life. So much loss. And somehow publishing a book called “How to Say Goodbye" feels like the most hopeful thing I can do right now.

Hi on the morning of pub day for my new book, How to Say Goodbye.

I don’t generally talk about my personal life here. Or anywhere, really. But let me share a little about what’s happened over the past year. 

I moved.

My little bio family got hit with some really, really hard health issues.

And after 15 wonderful, loving, creative years, my wife Caroline and I decided to separate. (We still love each other very much. So much exists because of her, and we are forever family. Thanks for you, C.) 

So much fucking loss. So much letting go. It’s like at some point along the trajectory of our lives we take this unexpected hairpin turn and as we keep moving forward we simultaneously see all we’re losing and all we’ve left behind.

At the same time, I’ve never experienced the outpouring of support I received from friends and family. I never expected my loved ones to step up and gather round me like they did. One friend sent me sweatpants. Another sent a robe. One friend dropped off soup, another cupcakes, another Xanax. One person called every single day - for months. And meanwhile, I had this conversation going with you all in The GUT. You didn’t know it, but you/The GUT buoyed me through a violent storm. You gave me something to focus on, to look forward to. Thank you.

As a viciously independent only child, it took stacking the most devastating losses one on top of another for me to buckle and admit I couldn’t carry it all. To let people take care of me. I never imagined this kind of community and support was possible. (Again, thank you. You know who you are.) 

Which takes me to this little book coming today: How to Say Goodbye.

Katherine, a former resident at Zen Hospice’s Guest House

I never expected to publish this project publicly. It was too vulnerable. Too much of my heart. I made it 6 years ago after finishing an artist’s residency at Zen Hospice. I used money my Aunt Tildie left me to create an artists book edition of 200 and gave them away as gifts. I’d drawn Tildie in the days and weeks leading up to her death, and that led to the residency at Zen Hospice. Since those are the drawings that constitute this project, it seemed the cosmically right thing to do.

Tildie holding Suso.

In the years since, my agent and I received requests from therapists, hospice workers, and nurses who’d seen it and wanted copies to give to their patients’ families. Saying, “sorry no, you can’t have one because it’s art and I’m controlling and insecure,” seemed like a stupid reason to keep something helpful out of people’s hands. 

And so, with some time and distance from the project, I finally let it go. 

The book that comes out today is identical to the artists book I created except for two things: palliative care doctor BJ Miller, MD wrote a beautiful foreword framing the book, and I included a bunch of useful resources at the end - supportive organizations, books about death and dying for grown-ups and picture books for kids, and a resource to create our own advance care directives. That way, when it’s our turn to go, at least that part will be easier for our loved ones.

Keep it art, and make it as helpful as it can be. I hope I’ve done that. I did my best. 

This is it.

When we make things, especially books, we pack them full of our thoughts and feelings and ideas and pauses and exclamation points. We can hold onto them so tight, try to dial everything in just right so people will understand exactly what we mean. So they get How. Important. This. Thing. Is. (And yes, it is that important.) 

I think that’s one reason why so many of us have half-written big books in a drawer somewhere or a huge book idea just waiting for the right time: we know that if we actually make the damn thing - well, first, let’s acknowledge how much freaking hard work it is to make a book - but if we do end up making it, eventually we will have to let it go. And then our story isn’t ours anymore. It’s the world’s. 

We have zero control over our work after it leaves our hands. Zero. Zilch. It could crash and burn. Be totally misunderstood. Maybe it (we!) will get called a phony or a failure or a disappointment. Or maybe worst of all, it could just get… ignored. All possible. (And honestly, on the ignored tip, probable. There are simply too many books out there.)

But also maybe, MAYBE, someone might pick it up and read it. Slowly. And maybe they find something in it that strikes a chord, and they tuck it away for later. Or even more, maybe they connect with it in a way we never ever dreamed, and it inspires something beyond what we ever imagined. 

Jenny and Jamaica, former residents at the Zen Hospice Guest House.

When we take a deep breath and let go and share our work with the larger world, we give it the opportunity to have a life bigger than us. To me, that’s art. This hard year has taught me that’s also life. Only by letting go can we make space for whatever the hell is coming next. It might be terrible. It might be nothing. And it might be more beautiful than we ever imagined.¹

What a ride this hairpin winding road turns out to be. 

None of this tells you much about How to Say Goodbye. I’ll send out a more direct newsletter that will highlight some the book’s key lessons and the remarkable people who shared them with me. But for now - on a day when I’m publishing something that, while it might not seem like it from the outside, took a lot of courage for me to share - it felt right to tell you a little more about where it came from. 

Which is to say, my heart. 

xoxo,

w

PS. All the links to How to Say Goodbye go to Bookshop so if you want to buy one you can buy it from an independent bookstore. The wonderful folks at Bloomsbury have arranged for a discount there, too. Use the code HOWTOSAY for 10% off.

Weird note to end this on, a discount code. So I’ll do this instead: Thank you, and…

Tildie. ❤️

1. https://susanomalley.org/posts/more-beautiful-root-division/