What do you do when you’re a master of words—a publisher of them, even—but none will come to describe the hole that has suddenly appeared in your heart? What do you do when your stock-in-trade can’t come close to conveying the depths of emptiness and despair at the loss of someone you looked up to more than anyone? You keep going. You keep typing. You keep doing the one thing that your mentor admonished you to do above all other things… You keep writing. Because today the world is changed, and that mentor has moved on.

They say that a child doesn’t come into their own unless and until the death of their father. If that’s the case, we as a company were shoved into adulthood this morning when we learned of the passing of our mentor, legendary Western author Dusty Richards.

Keep writing.

What can we say about Dusty? The real question is what can’t you say about him? To say that he was larger than life is the grandest of understatements. He was an irresistible force and an unmovable object all rolled into one, a personality wider than the western skies he wrote about. He was an eternal optimist, a man who woke up each and every day renewed and ready for the next job, the next challenge, the next good fight. He was a father, a patriarch, a mentor of the first order. He toured the country teaching and encouraging new and experienced writers alike, challenging them to follow his lead, tell the next inspiring story, pen the next Great American Novel. He was a fighter, a lover, a joker, an entrepreneur, a canny businessman, a television and radio personality, a famous rodeo announcer, a cowboy, and, perhaps above all else, a master storyteller. Dusty was everything that fit under his trademark ten gallon hat and so much more, and we could keep writing for a year and not do him justice. He was a legend, and one that touched the lives of many, many thousands—possibly millions—of people.

What would he say to us right now? “Dig in those spurs and get on with it.” He’s sitting around that big ol’ campfire in the sky right now, Pat at his side, swapping stories with the likes of Zane Grey, Louis L’Amour, and his old friends Jory Sherman and Cotton Smith. He was not one for self-pity, grief, or taking his foot off the gas for a second. He wouldn’t want to be grieved, but celebrated. He’d want to keep his memory alive by following his lead. By chasing the sunset with all that we’ve got, pursuing our dream, living with passion, and cherishing the ones we love. And that’s what we’ll do, how we’ll honor our beloved father. Keep writing. Keep fighting. Keep telling stories. Keep doing what Dusty did until we can’t anymore.

Happy trails, Boss. We’ll see you again someday.

Keep writing.