by Roger S. Jones

Roger S. Jones died on April 2, 2011. A note from Louise, his wife, received on April 10 read

My husband Roger S. Jones died a week ago after a whirlwind bout with cancer (three weeks from diagnosis to death). He was so pleased that you were publishing his article. The irony is that he never had the chance to complete the project he wrote about: to collect his writings and e-publish them.

I keep thinking about dying. Not right now, mind you. Just in a general kind of way. And I’m not being morbid either; I’m in no rush. It’s just that at my age, it’s hard not to think about end-of-life matters. It’s certainly not about any funeral or memorial plans. Even less am I concerned with the disposal of my body. In fact, cremation is my choice, and what they do with the remains matters little to me.

Rather, it has something to do with a kind of obligation I feel as I approach the end. Nobody has told me that I must do anything in particular—nobody, that is, except me. But for some reason, I worry about tidying things up and finishing them off. And for the most part that means my writing. My possessions and any money will be disposed of or distributed in a meaningful way according to my will, so I’m not really concerned about that. But what I don’t want is for someone to act as a kind of literary executor for me and make decisions about what to do—if anything—with my growing written output. In truth, I don’t trust anyone to do that job, so I feel I’d better get it done myself. Am I being vain? Perhaps.

by Lindsay Nielsen

Were you dying as I passed the Lake Harriet bench where we always met? As I breathed in the morning air colored by the sunrise, were you exhaling your last? Were you already gone when I woke during the night realizing I needed to drop a note off at your house? Because even though you weren’t feeling well enough to talk, I wanted to let you know one more time how much I admired you, how permanently your quiet presence had become part of my heart. Maybe you’ve gone to a place where you still have some form of consciousness, some kind of ability to watch your children grow and have children of their own. I hope by the end you came to understand how much you affected the world by your very being.

By Ellen Baker

Three years ago, I listened in shock to my new agent telling me that Random House had not only just bought my first novel, Keeping the House, they’d also bought my second novel. I was thrilled. I was confused. But I’ve only written the one. They do that? “It can be about whatever you want it to be,” my agent told me. “They just really love your writing.”