Writer, Professor and Pen Pal: Josefine Kals Remembers Stephen Dixon

I met Stephen Dixon while studying at Johns Hopkins Writing Seminars in my sophomore year. His teaching style involved pacing around the classroom, sharing insights about fiction writing in his calm voice. I remember his ink-stained pockets and his kind demeanor, urging us to discover the beauty in everyday life. Later that year, I obtained a signed copy of his book "End of I" from Barnes & Noble near campus.

A few years later, Professor Dixon retired from his 30-year teaching tenure at JHU. When I, as a graduating senior, sought advice about my degree in a field dubbed "pre-unemployment," Mary Jo Salter, his poetry professor, encouraged me to seek out a publishing house. A year after graduation, I joined the publicity team at Random House, where my path crossed with Stephen Dixon's again.

He and I began exchanging emails about his life, work, and writing, continuing until the very end. Dixon's prose is unique in its simplicity and intimacy, akin to reading someone's shopping list. It's the beauty in his writing that lies in its ordinary, detailed portrayal of life. He referred to himself as a "fussbudget worrywart" and shared personal anecdotes in his emails, like his grandson's sonogram that looked "like a bust carved from marble by Michelangelo."

Professor Dixon continued to write and share his new work with me through FedEx envelopes, even though I, as his publicist, couldn't decide what to publish. His unique ability to capture the mundane, the love for parenting, and the unpredictability of life's moments in his work made me appreciate the beauty of the ordinary. I am grateful for the opportunity to receive his emails and his final message from his daughters, informing me of his hospice care.

Stephen Dixon's writings, now published by McSweeney's, are a reminder of the profound impact of life's smallest moments.