The Found Words Festival has turned me into a product.
My face stares back from every surface at the convention center. Banners with moody black-and-white photos and pull quotes from reviews I barely remember.“Midnight writes grief like a poet and thinks like a philosopher.”Badge lanyards with the festival logo and my name listed under “Featured Authors.” Tote bags with that fucking storm quote printed in elegant script.
“Calvin! Oh my god, Calvin Midnight!”
A woman rushes toward me, clutching my book like a life preserver. She’s maybe thirty, carefully styled hair, the kind of put-together look that suggests she dressed up for this conference.
“Your book is so beautifully written,” she says, eyes bright. “I found out about you through TikTok. There’s this whole community that shares quotes from your essays.” Her gaze flicks down, then back up, not quite subtle in her appreciation. “You’re even better looking in person.”
I shift uncomfortably. “Thanks. That’s... thanks.”
“This line especially.” She pulls out her phone, shows me a screenshot from an Instagram post. “Some storms are good enough to dance in. Even if they ruin everything in their path.” She looks at me expectantly. “It’s so romantic.”
Someone has it tattooed on her ribs, I think.Had it before she even knew me.
“Would you sign this? To Jessica. With two s’s.” She’s holding out the book, opened to that essay, leaning closer than necessary.
“Of course.” I take her pen, write something generic before her name.Best wishesorHappy reading. Something that maintains distance.
She touches my arm as she takes the book back, lets her hand linger. “Maybe we could get coffee? I’d love to hear more about your process.”
“I have another panel,” I say, stepping back. “But enjoy the conference.”
Her face falls slightly, but she recovers. “Of course, I’ll actually be at that one. But if you want to find me after, I’ll be around.”
She winks, walking away. I think about how Maren would have handled that. Probably would have teased me about it later, called me “TikTok famous” until I laughed. Instead I’m here alone, turning down coffee with strangers while the person I actually want to talk to is three hours away, thinking I chose this over her.
I check my phone. Twenty minutes until the next panel. I could skip it, claim illness, drive back to Dark River right now. Instead, I follow the stream of people heading toward Conference Room B, letting the crowd carry me forward.
The panel room is packed. I’m seated between two other authors I should probably recognize but don’t. The moderator, an eager PhD student with color-coded note cards, introducesus with the kind of reverence usually reserved for Nobel laureates.
“Calvin Midnight needs no introduction,” she says, which means she’s about to give me one anyway. “His essay collection has touched millions of readers...”
I zone out, looking at the audience. Front row center, there’s Jessica-with-two-s’s, notebook out, pen poised. Behind her, rows of faces all waiting for wisdom I don’t possess. Some are grieving, I can tell. You recognize it after a while, the particular way loss sits on someone’s shoulders. And I feel for them, I really do. But I don’t know that I have anything to offer them.
What would Maren think of this?The thought comes unbidden. She’d probably be at a different panel entirely right now, one about craft or publishing or some debut novelist she’d discovered. She’d be collecting business cards, making friends with other aspiring writers, filling her tote bag with free books. Later she’d tell me about some incredible session I missed while I was up here talking about grief for the hundredth time.
I wish she was here. Wish I’d swallowed my fear instead of pushing her away. Wish we were figuring things out together instead of me sitting up here pretending I have answers. She could be discovering new writers, getting inspired, feeling part of this world she wants to join. Instead she’s in Dark River because I pushed her away.
“Calvin,” the moderator says, and I realize I’ve missed a question. “Could you talk about the role of time in grief narratives?”
“Time in grief isn’t linear,” I hear myself say, falling into the familiar rhythm. “We think of healing as moving forward, but grief is more like...” I pause, and for a second I almost say something real. “It’s like weather. Storms that come and go. Some days you’re dancing in the rain, some days you’re just trying not to drown.”
People nod. Someone writes it down. The moderator beams like I’ve just solved world peace.
“That’s beautiful,” she says. “This idea of dancing in storms. It’s become somewhat iconic from your work.”
Iconic. Like I’m a brand.Calvin Midnight™, grief guru for the modern age.
“It’s just a metaphor,” I say, sharper than intended. “Sometimes I think we hide behind pretty metaphors instead of dealing with the actual mess of loss.”
The moderator’s smile falters. The other panelists shift uncomfortably. But in the audience, I see a few people lean forward, like maybe they’ve been waiting for someone to say that.
“Could you elaborate?” the moderator asks carefully.
I should deflect. Give them what they came for. The beautiful words about resilience and meaning-making. Instead, I think about Maren, about the tattoo, about driving away from Dark River without her in the front seat of my truck.
“We write these essays, these books, making sense of grief like it’s a problem to be solved,” I say. “But real grief isn’t elegant. It’s not a metaphor. It’s waking up and forgetting they’re gone for just a second. It’s finding their coffee mug and not being able to throw it away. It’s...”
