In early September of 2022, when I heard that the horror writer Peter Straub had died, it was like a hole had opened up beneath my feet. Anyone who’s ever felt close to a writer, a musician, a movie star, through their work, can probably relate to the strange grief that comes when you hear one of them is gone. To me, it’s like a grief I don’t have the right to, not compared to those who may have actually known the person, yet I’ve felt compelled to explore the sense of loss by celebrating that person’s work. I worry it’s a selfish kind of grief, centered around myself rather than the person. And yet it stems from a place of gratitude, and comes with the desire to talk about it, to write about it, to honor them in the only ways I know how.