Insights from an Author who Wrote through Chemotherapy and a Grim Prognosis
A tribute to my friend and client Will Keiper
Welcome back to B is for Book Coach. Today, we’re making space for Will.
All month long, I’ve been looking forward to sharing a pre-recorded episode that has been sitting in the queue, ready to go.
But I need to pause the planned order of things to do something very different. Something I’ve been holding for months now—how on earth did the time pass so quickly?—not entirely sure how to share it.
Back in October, I met with the newly published Will Keiper to talk about his experience of writing and publishing The Power of Noticing. Not just because he was a month into post-publish territory, but because he was also alive a month longer than the doctors told him he would be.
Will and I had worked together on several books already. His name was always exciting to see in my inbox—usually with a request like “can you make some time for me on…” in the subject line, with a specific date, an attached document, and an exciting new breakthrough to sort out.
The Power of Noticing came with a lot of breakthroughs.
It also came with a surprise diagnosis of cancer, multiple rounds of chemo, the assumption that it was over, and finally a surprise resurgence with a sudden three-month prognosis.
The tension was wild—we balanced taking our time to let his book emerge as it needed to alongside a race to the clock to ensure he actually saw his book enter the world before he left it.
Each time we spoke, he told me about the miles he was walking and how great he felt, all things considered. We knew what days he could work around his “foggy days” with chemo and what days required rest. And he had a team of supporters around him reading along, offering insights, and shuffling his words from development to production—leap-frog style—until it finally made it to print.
That was in September of last year. In October, we had the conversation excerpted throughout the rest of this “episode,” which I regret not sharing sooner.
Sometime last week, probably around the time I had the thought that I should check in on how he’s doing, Will left this iteration of his life—no doubt to go on revising himself and his work on some quantum level.
He was so prolific in the words he wanted to write, and so efficient at doing so, that I have no doubt more books would have emerged if he’d had more time.
In fact, he thought he would have more time, and that “someday” he’d write something more personal than the how-to, leadership-driven books he’d been drawn toward for so long.
But he didn’t let someday stop him.
When this book took its inevitable turn toward vulnerability, he followed it.
He trusted what was inside of him. He trusted what he knew his readers would need. He trusted me and his team as we encouraged and supported him through a more challenging topic. He trusted that his own perspective was his most valuable expertise. And he wrote.
He showed up.
Fully.
Just as he was, chemo and all.
And that, as I remind you all every single week, is what the best authors are made of.
So for this episode, I’m not going to let someday slip away.
I am writing this through tears—no way I can record. I am writing it tucked under blankets, far later than my usual posting time, knowing that I’d prefer to include transcripts but simply won’t post it if I were to wait. The tension is still wild, and this is certainly not the planned order of things. But time passes quickly, and what we need is not always what we thought we wanted.
I thought I wanted some ideal space to share this in, but all I needed was to make space. To bring Will to you, with all the fullness of his brilliant authorial self.
This is why we write. Through tears, through chemo, through imperfections and vulnerabilities.
Because the slow medicine of books heals us, body and soul, on a collective level that lasts far longer than we do.
Thank you, Will, for sharing so many doses of healing.
Rest now. We’ll take it from here.
This is beautiful B. I’m really glad you shared this. Still hard to believe he’s gone.