Letter to My Writing Mentor Judith Marks-White (1940-2024)

Dear Judith,

Even though it’s been months since I watched a rabbi play show tunes at your funeral I still regularly pick up my phone to text you. Every time my writing is acknowledged in some way, it’s you I want to tell first, and so to say that this has been a period of adjustment is something of an understatement. My world and worldview have changed drastically for the better since we met, and I owe a large part of that to the confidence you instilled in me on that day you locked me in your laser gaze, clearly seeing in me something I could not see in myself. Though many people have told me I am “good with words,” I struggle to find ways to express how grateful I am to have known you.

When I was in second grade, Mrs. Rothfuss told my parents that I should be a writer, and I carried the shame of being unable to live up to that expectation for decades, but depression turned every blank page into a gaping, white maw of disappointment as the words simply would not come. Looking back I see that low self-worth had robbed me of confidence, and of the belief that anything I had to say could be of value. It is like existing in inky-black stasis, but worse than that is the all-consuming sense that even if one were to be freed from the bondage of the darkness, nothing would change. You, and your light, revealed to me how flawed and faulty that belief truly was.

We met shortly after the ketamine treatments had granted me a new life, erasing decades of depression, self-pity, and sloth. I was becoming a person who was, by all accounts, “better,” but within I was still struggling to find some purpose until the day I walked into your writing group. The old me would have wanted to attend, but would have found or manufactured excuses not to, as that is how depression works. It seduces the sufferer into believing that nothing they do matters, and fosters a climate of inactivity.

An object at rest will stay at rest until acted upon by some outside force, and, for me, you were that force. I can still see the look on your face after I read “A Modest Meal” to the group. Bearing in mind that I thought I would be asked to leave after relating this tale about wealthy elites eating children for amusement, one could hardly imagine what your reaction made me feel.

I was familiar with the look you gave me. It is the spark of curiosity in the eyes that appears as it dawns on the beholder that there may be more to the unassuming, black-clad entity that is me than one initially estimated. It is a hungry, curious look, and truth be told, pursuing the feeling I get when I see that expression on a another’s face had been my drug of choice for as long as I can remember, but here it was in a new context, and that opened a door in my mind that I never want to shut. I go out of my way to remain invisible, but you saw me. You looked at me like you wanted more, and in that moment I knew I never wanted to disappoint you.

Judith, you changed my life in a moment, and though I sent you many gushy, appreciative texts over the years. I’m not sure I was ever explicitly clear about what you did for me. This is too little, too late, but it will have to suffice. Since seeing Terminator 2 in high school, I have scratched “NO FATE” into more unattended wooden surfaces than I can count, and yet, meeting you felt like an important step on the path of destiny, something I still struggle to reconcile with. Despite the internal conflict this stirs within me, I must acknowledge the Kismet involved.

It took a while, but we reassembled the writing group under a new leader. It is not the same, but life is about change, and we will adapt. We are meeting in person again, and it is not lost on me how your old wards tend to sit together, perhaps in an unconscious effort to collectively maintain some aspect of your presence on those Sunday afternoons in Alice’s bookstore. Somehow, even for a born nihilist such as myself, it is hard to not believe in something greater at those times, as it certainly feels like you are still there.

I imagine your spirit spends most of its time on some Elysium beach with your beloved husband, in a place blessedly free of rude people and cigarette smoke (your greatest peeves.) Yet, I also suspect that on certain Sundays you might slip back to the material realm to keep an eye on the progress your little cadre of writers are making, or at least, I hope you do, as we seem to be doing well, all things considered.

I cannot say what my life today might look like had I not followed my heart into that bookstore all those years ago, but I know I would not be facing the world with the same confidence I am able to carry myself with as a result of knowing you. For this I am eternally and forever grateful, and I can only hope that the things I said to you in life gave you some shred of an idea of how important you are to me. Thank you, Judith, thank you to infinity.

With Gratitude and Love,

Jon (J. Otis Haas)