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The Marvelous Mr. Cundari?

There's a warm feeling of recognition when you're actively being pushed to leave your box of solitude. Are they friends if they're not forcing you to act against your self-imposed guardrails? To me, it means your presence is wanted. Wanted in a way that, without you, their own night would be nothing more than an empty post-shift bar hang. I feel gloomy every time I'm forced to join the rest of the group, especially with a Costco pumpkin pie in my fridge and my recent attachment to the TV show, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel . Of course, after the intersection of a pint or two of beer and a good song, my gloom turns into a curiosity about what comes next. For a monthly tradition, we'll go to a goth night so we can lurk behind the attractive and young people the International brings in. I'll see a girl or two there and daydream about who they are, what kind of interaction we could have. Nothing sexual for the most part, but a nod to their ability to stand out in a very...
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Mentor

A few years ago, I submitted a story to a New York Times bestseller, an English professor at NYU, to ask if he could edit it and maybe help guide me. To my surprise, a few days later, he sent my manuscript back with revisions, notes, and harsh criticism of my approach to reaching out to him. He liked my words, but his biggest note was that I wrote like I’d only experienced domestic things.

I was young and wrote mostly reflective pieces — nothing worth reading. It was just a part of my growth as a writer. He told me to get out of my cave and go live life. And once I’d done that, to get back to the desk and write about it. He continued by telling me not to obsessively bother him now that I had somehow found his email, but said I was free to send my work whenever I thought it was polished enough for his viewing.

I did just that for a few months but fell out of love with writing shortly thereafter. Over the next few years, my writing slowed, but my life experiences became what I think are stories worth telling. In the back of my mind, his biggest note replayed constantly: live life. Go out and be irreverent.

I’m not sure if I followed his instructions the way he intended, but after a few years of a life worth living, I found myself back at a desk, writing the stories I’ve come to appreciate. However, once I was back, staring at the words on my screen, I looked him up to see if he was still accessible. I found out that he passed away a little while after I stopped contacting him.

A good man, he was. I didn’t know much about him — his family, his friends, nothing. Either way, I hope he understood how important that moment was for me. I look back, and an accomplished man who took the time to engage with a young, inexperienced writer has a good heart. He didn’t have to do that. He humanized himself to help me, of all people.

My only hope is that his family and the people around him knew he was that kind of man. I think about him a lot now, wondering what he’d say about my writing today. I know he’d still be harsh. But maybe a little less harsh.

Who knows.

God rest his soul.