Maureen Frost passed away yesterday. Maureen was a writer: a new writer, with a few stories under her belt, as well as a history of the Mafia which will be in stores later this year.
Maureen and I worked together. Sometimes we took breaks and walked out to get tea. Maureen introduced me to genmaicha–green tea with roasted rice–and dragon pearls. As we walked, we talked about writing.
Maureen showed me some of her stories. At that time she had never sent them out, because she was sensitive, and feared rejections would crush her. She asked me how I could bear it. I don’t remember what I answered, because it is a light thing to me; but it was a heavy thing to Maureen.
Watching her work up the courage to share her writing was so impressive. Even showing a piece to just me–her colleague and friend–made her extremely nervous. She took that first step bravely. Then she began sending her work to magazines. I remember her being so anxious that her voice was breaking when she told me. And still she did it.
What Maureen faced, only she knew. I feel like I saw the shadow of it now and then, in the intensity of effort she had to put forth to submit her work. I do not know how much Maureen wrote, or how much of it she was willing to send out. I do know there is no better way for a writer to remember another writer than to share her words.