Personal rule: if you know who you’re dedicating your book to, then you have a concrete sense of what the book is actually about. My thought used to be that you’d dedicate a book to who was most important to you during the making of the thing, but it’s really about who was most important to the thing itself. For my book Nothing Lasts Forever, I waffled back and forth on making it to an on-again off-again ex who I was very much on-again with when wrapping the project. For a book about sickness and healing, I could have dedicated it to the two people who took care of me the most, but I loved that the book low key chronicled this romance between two people and didn’t give readers the answer about if they ever got back together. The dedication was the spoiler.
For Superman: The Harvests of Youth, I always knew I was going to dedicate it to the three classmates from high school whose lives ended too soon. Two of them died when I was in school, and one died in my early 20s. The whole book is a love letter to my teen years, and I wanted to capture the pain and uncertainty that comes from feeling invincible because you have your whole life ahead of you but then seeing a seat in your class empty because that’s a lie and a person can die in an instant.
The topic is on my mind this morning because for the last few days I have been feeling incredibly grateful for my career. On Thursday, I got to go back to my old college and speak at UC Santa Cruz’s Living Writers series. My two advisors/ professors gave me the biggest hugs and took me to eat fancy Thai food and talk about parents, aging, and how me making room for “the divine” is both nothing and everything like who I was as a writer in college. At the same time, I’ve been playing Chappell Roan’s “My Kink is Karma” on repeat, reveling in the petty motivator that my success vs the imaginary “you’s” failure is what keeps me going. I don’t like that there are people who hate me, but I do like that- much to their chagrin- I’ve still got a career I can be proud of.
I was in the shower this morning, and ruminating on being motivated for petty reasons, and I remembered another reason why I continue to challenge myself to be a better storyteller: Jimmy Bromberg.
One of the three people I dedicated Superman to, Jimmy was my Clark Kent. I’d known him since middle school, and even though he was popular, came from a well-to-do family, and played sports, he was generally nice to everyone. He ended up with his high school sweetheart, and then returned to Lincoln Middle School as a teacher. He fought cancer with a public-facing smile, but ultimately he lost the war way too young. I remember ending an Emerald City Comic-Con, having dinner with my friends and stepping out to take a call from my friend Gabi. She was the one to tell me Jimmy had died.
After that phone call, I made a promise to myself to take advantage of still being on this planet. I get every day to follow my dreams, and while Jimmy’s ghost isn’t looking down on me wondering if I’m staying true to that promise, he floats in the back of my head as a reminder.
Before the new year, I told my friends Broderick, Nate, Chris and Hayden that my resolution was to draw 300 pages in 2024. I’ve completed a poster, an album cover, and a book cover, but I haven’t drawn an actual page of comics. After my shower, I knew what the goal for today was: to finish inking a page for my book about Henry. It’s clear I’m not done thinking about life and death, and all signs are pointing to leaning in and facing that sadness head on.
Wish me luck.
Good grief! (I’m sorry)
A favorite podcast of mine that deals a lot with grief and stories of facing life’s challenges is called “Terrible, thanks for asking” if you haven’t, give it a listen. I imagine it might lend some inspiration for what you’re leaning into. Cheers.