The other day I did something I rarely do anymore. I googled an editor-friend from back in my active
days in the academic/literary publishing world. I had tried to get in touch with him a couple of times,
but he seemed incommunicado. Well, I found out that Michael Curtis passed away this January. He,
especially in the early days of a correspondence that lasted almost thirty years, taught me much about
writing stories, and about writing as a craft to incrementally master. For that I will always be grateful.
He first started writing me back in 1992, and I saved every one of the dozens of rejection letters he sent
back. At first, it was just a sentence or two, just suggestions. As time went on the sentences grew to
paragraphs, and Mike exhibited a warmth, and a solid encouragement, and for that I will always be
grateful, too. I got to meet him twice during this time of correspondence; once at Rollins College in
Winter Park, Florida, where he was giving a talk to the writing students set up by our mutual friend, Phil
Deaver. The other time was in Columbus, Ohio, at a workshop. He was understanding about my
emotional awkwardness in those early stories, and taught me to fashion the discomfort into
vulnerability and compassion.
When I moved out West to be with my wife Erin in Utah, we started up a literary magazine. Of course,
the first person I thought of when considering who to interview was Mike. The back and forth turned
out to be very fruitful, and as a result, a new vision of how to approach fiction writing opened up to me
as a writer. Mike was gracious, as always, giving gems of advice freely as the interview went on. A few
years ago, he stepped down from The Atlantic, and, of course, that ended an amazing apprenticeship
with him, as the incoming fiction staff had different plans for the magazine. I miss his notes, towards
the end hand-written and warm and personal. It was an honor to have worked with him, and to have
learned by his hand.
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