only dust

Bill Finn.

Over the last several days, my phone has been full of friends sharing their memories—of his music, of his wisdom, of that one sweater. So, as enigmatic as he was, let me try to put into words something of a tiny sliver of who he was.

He took his craft seriously, but not himself. And at the same time, he was remarkably blasé about his own work. Any serious questions about meaning were brushed off—whether because Bill couldn’t remember or because he wanted you to create and lean in to your own interpretation and meaning of his work is anyone’s guess. Probably both. He was more interested in what you thought than what he thought. 

Bill wanted writers to push boundaries, create messes. A top-tier compliment from him was calling you “perverse.” He was crotchety sometimes, but always genuine, and full of joy. He was brutally honest and to-the-point; if he liked something, he told you, and if he didn’t like something (more often than not), he also told you. If he upset or offended you—well, that was a you problem. 

But through all his bluntness, he wanted the best for you. He would go to bat for you, would fight tooth and nail for you to get the opportunities and recognition you deserved. He launched so many careers, mentored so many writers. As so many people right now are sharing: “What would I do if you had not been my friend?”