I’ve been reading through old funeral trade magazines lately, flipping through interviews with funeral directors who’ve written books about their careers — mostly self‑published, some genuinely compelling, others… less so. As I read, I found myself thinking about my first book.
When it came out, it felt groundbreaking — though I didn’t fully realize that at the time. I was writing openly about death, grief, and my life as a funeral director long before social media made it acceptable to discuss the realities of one’s work. Back then, talking about death in public was still considered improper, and admitting you were a funeral director often ended a conversation rather than began one.
Still, I stepped into that silence.
The book drew attention because it dared to go where most people — and certainly most media outlets — preferred not to look. I received publicity, yes, but I also ran into a wall of rejection from editors and producers who told me the subject was “too dark,” “too morbid,” or simply “not something their audience wanted to think about.” They didn’t want to explore the topic, and they definitely didn’t want to explore it with me.
And yet, the book found its readers. It carved out a space that hadn’t existed before, and in doing so, it helped me claim my own voice in a profession that is often spoken about but rarely spoken from.
For years now, I’ve been trying to bring out an updated edition —with a new chapter that reflects everything I’ve learned since that first publication. But life has a way of intervening: work, responsibilities, the constant pull of the present moment. The intention is there, the material is there, and the desire is stronger than ever. I just haven’t yet carved out the uninterrupted stretch of time it deserves.
Still, the book remains as necessary as it ever was. And so does the impulse to return to it.
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