For our friend

Still reeling from the recent passing of my friend Kathy Hepinstall. Many of you know her as the ad industry's premier freelance writer. I hesitate to use the word copywriter because she did so much more, including 8 published books and a mountain of incredible poetry. 

She was inarguably in a league of her own. 

Those of you who don't know her, should. I'd start with The Book of Polly, "a hilarious, battle royal between a mother and daughter, where the weapon of choice is love," said one NY Times bestselling author.

The book was optioned by Hollywood. Don't know if the movie will get made, but it should. I'd cast Allison Janey as the chain-smoking southern mom, but that's just me. I also would have cast Kathy as the daughter. Not sure she could act, but I am sure she could do any damn thing she wanted. And do it better than anyone could imagine. 

She was, as many have noted, a force of nature.

Sadly my interactions with Kathy had trailed off in recent years. But there was a time I had the privilege of being in an exclusive text/mail chain with her, two other incredibly talented writers. And Neal Hughlett. (low hanging fruit, sorry Neal.)

As writers are wont to do, we often tried to outdo each other, with carefully crafted bon mots. Mostly lame attempts to keep up with Kathy. I can't share many of these as there is considerable dishing on the ad industry, various agencies and assorted ne'erdowells who merited the snarky gossip. 

But between moments of moroseness, I did fish out these e-mail exchanges that made me smile. Mostly because they're so singularly Kathy.

(Click on the screeen grabs to enlarge)

This was for a book signing party, which I probably didn't attend.

These type of events only serve to remind me of my own laziness

and the collective jealousy of Kathy.

That's some affirmation. 

As our mutual friend Bob Rice once put it: 

A Kathy Hepinstall stamp of approval, shit, 

just having her breathe in your general direction would send 

                                                                 sales go through the roof.

Finally, I solicited Kathy for some wisdom on

the completely fictional and 

self-deprecating comments for one of my books.

There are no words for moments like these. The irony is, if there were the right words, or soothing Texan maxims, Kathy would be the only one who could write them.

Kathy, you were so loved. And now you are so missed.

May your memory be a blessing.