A man wrote recently to ask if I was thinking of retiring. After twenty-six years as editor of this magazine, he wondered, wasn’t I ready for something else? If so, he was offering himself as my replacement. He didn’t really know what to make of The Sun, he admitted. The editorial content didn’t appeal to him, and he couldn’t imagine why there was no advertising. But the idea of running a magazine intrigued him.
He might as well have asked if I was ready to retire from breathing. No, I would have said, inhaling and exhaling hadn’t become boring; I loved seeing my chest rise and fall. Still, I didn’t want to dismiss his letter out of hand. Maybe he was someone with a message I needed to hear, some kind of angel in disguise; maybe I was in a rut and didn’t know it. I tried to imagine leaving The Sun, sailing off to some island paradise. But try as I might to focus on fragrant breezes and swaying palm trees, my thoughts kept drifting back to the upcoming issue: Had I chosen the right material? Was the writing soulful enough? Did it celebrate life in all its complicated glory? Was it — oh, God — too sad?
