I’ve been thinking lately about the writers who shaped me.

My writing path has been a long one—starting with essays, moving into novels, and then finding a home for a while in flash: flash fiction, flash memoir, and flash essay. After my two brothers died of AIDS, I began a memoir that eventually evolved into my novel Hope in a Time of Dying. That project pulled me deeper into my writing life, and along the way, I found two mentors who changed me—both as a writer and a person.

For five years, I sat every week in John Rechy’s MasterClass. Those sessions were electric, demanding, and unforgettable. John was brilliant, unfiltered, and utterly committed to the craft. He taught me not just how to write, but how to live as a writer. Take the work seriously. Take yourself seriously. Don’t be afraid of the truth. He gave me permission to write what was raw, what was real, and what didn’t fit neatly into the mainstream. I couldn’t have asked for a better teacher during that stretch of my life.

Later, through Story Circle Network, I came to know Susan Wittig Albert. Susan is a different kind of mentor—measured, steady, and deeply grounded. Over time, she let me into her world, and I saw up close the quiet power of daily discipline. No fuss. No drama. Just sit down and write. I learned from Susan that persistence isn’t glamorous, but it’s everything. Writers write. That’s it.

These two—John and Susan—offered wildly different lessons, but together they formed a compass for my writing life. John gave me fire; Susan gave me form. John said, “Be bold.” Susan said, “Be steady.” I’ve carried their voices with me ever since.

Now that Hope in a Time of Dying is out in the world, I’m beginning to understand what a friend told me right after I published: “Enjoy this time.” I didn’t know what she meant then—I was still catching my breath. But now, when someone tells me they’ve read my book and it stayed with them, I feel something quiet and lasting settle in. A kind of gratitude. A kind of peace.

And in that space, I hear my mentors again. “Keep going,” they say. “You’re not done yet.”