When I found out one of my columnists had terminal stomach cancer and would not see the end of this year the news hit me hard! I cried… The universe was playing a provocative game of pile-on, and it seemed I was somewhere near the bottom (felt like the third layer).
The thing is I’d never met him in person; never laid eyes on him. It was through his work, his words, his stories and his memories that I got to know him. You learn a lot about a person who writes.
Readers develop a relationship with writers, though it is often one-sided. But I get to know my writers before they are fully dressed and ready for the party. And while I try to maintain the integrity of their story, I add the hairspray and the bling. What the readers get is a polished version of the original.
As the editor of a senior lifestyle magazine, I’ve lost a few writers to death, over the years, and it always saddens me. This felt different. Gipp had been with the magazine since its inception – like me. He was there in the early days when I felt like I had no business being in this business; when I worked 18-hour days on a steep learning curve, fueled by a drive to get it right.
I was telecommuting (before it was commonplace), learning new computer programs and migrating to a fully digital platform; and Gipp was submitting handwritten columns, which he would photocopy and send via snail mail. His refusal to jump on the bandwagon of modern technology forced me to keep one foot grounded in a neo-luddite world.
Sometimes, his column’s content would frustrate me. While I was trying to cheerlead a vibrant senior lifestyle with the limitless energy of someone who was on the ascent, he was heading back to base camp, and looking over his life with nostalgia and, sometimes, melancholy.
When I received his last batch of columns, there was one he asked me to print after his death. I thought nothing of it; Gipp could be cheeky like that. I didn’t read it. I wanted to live in the present, and be grateful for it. It’s not always easy to do, but it’s worth the effort.
I’m okay today. I’ve accepted that Gipp’s human experience has come to an end. He will live on in every one of us who has been touched and inspired (even frustrated) by his work, his words, his stories, and his life. And as small as my role has been, I’m happy I joined the party.
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