Michael Macklin

A Scripted Freelance Writer Writing Sample

There's nothing else I want to write about right now, but words elude me, and others have said so much, so beautifully. I'd rather let Michael himself speak here, and direct readers to his words and words of his more eloquent friends. God, our hearts ache. We lost Michael Saturday night; he was at the New England Young Writers Conference with his students, doing some of the things he loves best: teaching, mentoring, and modeling what is best in being a writer and person. His obituary appeared today in the Portland Press Herald. My memories of Michael go back 12 years or so. He was such a big part of why I love the Maine poetry community, and of my ideals of what a generous-hearted poet for all the ages should be. He was a character; I don't smoke but I'd usually smoke a cigarette with Michael. He made it look so very delicious--his gusto for life was enriching and, in this one instance, corrupting. Bless him. He was a faithful confidante, and reliably wise. He cared deeply and didn't pretty things up. Once I poured out my guilt about some very uncharitable thoughts I was nurturing towards someone in my life. I said I'd probably come back in the next life as a paramecium. He gave me that level, "seeing to the heart" Michael look, and said in that John Wayne cadence of his: "what....makes ya think....you'll do....THAT well?". He could shock one out of self-pity in a way somehow both tender and hilarious. Last summer Michael zoomed up to my house on a motorcycle. He was so full of boyish joy. That visit was an unexpected gift of laughter and memories. He promised to give me a ride on the back of his bike when he gained more confidence. I'm holding out for that ride.

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