In case you didn’t receive Autumn House’s email (or in case you’re late to Giving Tuesday), here’s the appeal I wrote for them:

A famous author once said that writing books isn’t hard; no, the hard part is enduring the life of a writer. As a youngster, I didn’t understand what “the life of a writer” really meant. Then, I got a smartphone with an email app, which meant I got a little notification ping each time a publisher rejected my novel. It’s a real treat when you’re on a date, or riding alone on a Port Authority Bus, illuminated by its merciless fluorescent lights. In the rain. By my count, this has happened to me at least seventy-nine times. So far. And yet, I’ve published two books. And, thanks to my books, I have secured teaching jobs, received and awards, and perhaps most excitingly, I managed to meet (Pittsburgh-born!) author Celeste Ng and interview her onstage in Pittsburgh a few months ago.

During the interview I asked her a question that’s been on my mind since the pandemic: “What does it mean to make art in the face of calamity?” She admitted to feeling helpless as an artist in the long winter of 2020. “But,” she said, “then I realized that I was turning to art for comfort, just like everyone else, and maybe I was looking for answers about coping during difficult times.” I think we were and still are all wondering what it means to be human, full, and part of a community. And, I’m writing to you because today I think writing matters and is essential to this pursuit. During the interview I asked her a question that’s been on my mind since the pandemic: “What does it mean to make art in the face of calamity?” She admitted to feeling helpless as an artist in the long winter of 2020. “But,” she said, “then I realized that I was turning to art for comfort, just like everyone else, and maybe I was looking for answers about coping during difficult times.” I think we were and still are all wondering what it means to be human, full, and part of a community. And, I’m writing to you because today I think writing matters and is essential to this pursuit.

It’s hard to express how much comfort I’ve sought—and found—through literature in the past few years. Even though I can now leave my house, I’m still amazed by how all that reading affected me. I joined the board at Autumn House Press because I’d seen AHP editors Christine Stroud and Mike Good at literary and volunteer events in Pittsburgh for years, and knew the important work Autumn House was doing for the literary community. During my time on the board, I’ve gained a deeper appreciation for their labor and craft. Being an editor means you’re part cheerleader, part therapist, part teacher, part artisan, and part small-business owner. It takes a special kind of person to endure that workload. Moreover, there’s a subtle art to editorial work, and this is where Christine and Mike excel. It’s been wonderful to see folks like Pittsburgh-based poet and teacher Cameron Barnett flourish with Autumn House and win awards on a national stage. On a personal note, I was blown away by the Faulknerian prose in Kevin Honold’s Molly, which received national praise, including a rave review in The Wall Street Journal, and I could spend pages rhapsodizing about Wendy Wimmer’s Entry Level. For years, Christine and Mike had the ability to spot talent, especially writers overlooked by major publishing houses. Without small presses like Autumn House, bookstores would be packed with focus-tested blockbuster novels with film-adaptation or movie franchise possibility. I weep for such a world. As with all good things in life, it takes a lot of work behind the scenes to foster and create quality, lasting work. As a writer, I’ve been reminded again and again that the magic isn’t free, but the journey is worth it. That’s certainly the case for the folks standing behind the writers each step of the way. I hope you’ll join me in supporting Autumn House Press. Thank you for your time, Robert Yune