Illustration: Celine Loup

Departure
dəˈpärCHər/
noun

the action of leaving, typically to start a journey.

I you want to understand two of the most important men in my life, you’d have to consider their dogs as well.

It’s July 2017, and I’m in the Adirondack mountain range by myself in our small family cabin. I’ve set up the space to moonlight as a makeshift writer’s retreat. I’ve stocked the fridge with vegetables, meat, and, of course, chocolate. Numerous bags of coffee line the antique pantry, where we try to keep the food away from the country mice. I’m up here to write a memoir about my dad, the late and great journalist David Carr. I wake up in my twin bed in the early morning, unsure and uneasy about the day ahead of me. I feel like there should be a sign at the door that reads: “CAUTION: Psychological mining taking place.” I’m here because there is little to no distraction. I set a goal of 2,000 words a day, a task I could never accomplish in my small apartment in Queens. It’s ambitious, but I remind myself that is one of the traits he gave me.

I storyboard the book, a skill I learned from making documentary films. Each brightly colored Post-it note is a chapter or a feeling I need to put words to. Odd phrases line the walls, from “did you know?” to “because I said so.” I fall into a rhythm, making words come out of my fingertips one by one. On the fourth day, I get a call on the house line and expect it to…