(In my mind.)
Recent tragedies have proven yet again that our country polices its citizens unequally, COVID-19 continues to spread, and cities are in turmoil as our wannabe strongman leader auditions for autocrat. It feels strange not to write about any of it this month, but the last thing anyone needs right now is another white guy sharing his feelings. My job is to listen, learn, and actively educate myself, and that is what I am doing. We all have a part to play in making meaningful change.
I didn’t even notice that Sunday, May 17, was the one-year anniversary of my last day as executive editor of Booklist. Funny that I would forget to observe such a personally significant date: at the time, the decision to leave my employer of 17 years felt momentous. I knew it was time to go, but leaving behind the security of the job I knew so well was both exciting and frightening.
I shouldn’t have worried. While the past year has had ups and downs, it’s been personally and professionally fulfilling. I’ve celebrated the publication of two books (Drowning with Others and A Million Acres) and completed two others (The Three Mrs Wrights and The Tiny Mansion). I’ve found rewarding sidelines as a ghostwriter (a natural for someone who already enjoys using pen names) and freelance editor. I’ve had conversations about some very interesting jobs—I’m not at all ruling out a return to the office—but I’m fortunate to be in a position where I can wait for the perfect fit.
I now run a small business, and while I still have a lot to learn about that, it suits my skills and interests because I enjoy balancing creative solo work with collaboration and even sales, marketing, and (gasp) accounting. At the moment I have all the work I can handle while awaiting green lights on several creative projects. For my morning “me time,” I’m taking a break from writing poetry to revise and complete a desk-drawer novel I dusted off at the start of lockdown.
The Graff home office has become larger as Marya works long days at a desk in our bedroom and Felix and Cosmo finish out the school year at the dining-room computer, on a laptop that travels from room to room, and using their ubiquitous phones. Each cat is adjusting in her own way to the sudden influx of coworkers: Toothless carves out her own space to snooze quietly, while Totoro indulges her need for constant dialogue and fights tooth and nail for my office chair.
Unable to enjoy in-person cocktails with my human colleagues, running has been more important than ever to me over the past three months—but more difficult to enjoy, due to Mayor Lightfoot’s lockdown of the Chicago lakefront. Long weekend runs with my friend Peter—part exercise, part therapy—have been taken off the table. Looping a homemade mask over my ears, I’ve taken to side streets, alleys under the L, and other less-than-ideal routes where I have to remain wary of both vehicular collisions and invasions of personal space.
Just last week, my family made the difficult decision to cancel our annual reunion in Montana. Sure, it’s probably safe, but who wants to use the word probably in conjunction with their loved ones’ lives? Just to pretend I’m visiting my home state, I set myself a summer goal of running the length of Highway 93, from Chief Joseph Pass at the Idaho border, to Roosville, British Columbia, in no more than 93 days. #93in93 has a nice ring to it, I think.
And just yesterday I reached Darby. As I mentally plod my way up the Bitterroot Valley, if you are actually in Montana, please send me a virtual wave—or even better, a picture.
From issue #5 of Graff Paper. Click here to view other issues and subscribe.