My editor disappeared

The situation with my book’s editor is pretty strange. But, primarily, I’m worried (and at this point quite sure) that something bad happened to him. For obvious privacy-related reasons, I’ll not call him by his real name. Let’s call him Burt.

I met Burt a couple of years ago through a client. They hired Burt, a 60-something-year-old writer with a background in technology, to write articles for their newsletter, blog, and some other stuff. I did design work for that same client and helped them refresh their look and feel as well as their tone of voice.

This is how Burt and I got acquainted. A brief call about our client’s writing style and whether or not to include custom illustrations turned into a 90-minute talk about writing, life, cowboys, and my book. I was looking for an editor, and Burt, as a freelance writer, desperately needed a website and something that would function as his logo. We agreed to barter: Burt would help me with the book, and I’d help him get online.

All went great. Burt didn’t hold back in his critique of my writing, and I built Burt a decent website with a cute animated logo. At least six months went by, during which my writing improved significantly through Burt’s feedback. Sometimes, we’d jump on a call, or we’d exchange emails about life, work, art, and everything in between.

After a while, I got my writing to where I wanted it to be, and I didn’t have anything left in return for Burt’s time. Burt turned out to be more of a mentor than a full-fledged editor, which was fine. Our barter deal grew into something more akin to pen pals. Sometimes, we’d email back and forth twice a week. Other times, it’d be quiet for up to a month and a half.

Some background information about Burt. He’s an American by birth but lived in many places throughout his life. During our contact, he resided both in Spain and Ireland. They are two very different places — a stark contrast he spoke lengthily and, at times, poetically about.

Burt seemed especially interested in Ireland’s troubles at the end of the 20th century, and he often shared a pint and exchanged stories with locals about that part of history.

The last few times we spoke, he lived in a village in Spain with his partner and at least one of his children — I’m not sure how many he has. He had trouble connecting with the locals (as opposed to Ireland), the dry, unforgiving heat, and the sluggish Spanish bureaucracy. He sent pictures of abstract paintings he’d made, a hobby he had recently picked up. At this point, our emails would be 3 to 4 weeks apart.

“My wife and I are sitting in the living room this afternoon. It's hot. Yesterday was hot. Tomorrow it'll be hot. The apartment isn't a/c'd. The fan is trying hard.”
— Burt

Then, with the book launch creeping up, it went quiet, mostly from my side. Our last few interactions had been months apart. In January 2024, Burt wrote a lengthy email. I had to look it up, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I didn’t directly reply to it.

When I signed my book contract, five months after Burt’s last email, I tried tagging him on LinkedIn to share the good news, but I couldn’t because the connection had been removed. I emailed him to share the news instead, but he never replied.

For a while, I feared that I had taken too long to reply to his last email or that I had done something else to upset him. But Burt is one of the kindest, most patient people I’d come to know in recent years; he often apologized for “taking up my time” when we’d call, which — needlessly to say — did not feel like a waste of time at all. This is to illustrate that it wouldn’t be like him to resent me for taking longer than usual to respond.

But the feeling never left me.

Around that same time, I had to send the book’s final PDF to the printer. In the acknowledgments section, I mention Burt “…for being my mentor and helping me mature as a writer.” Even though our barter deal was fair, I still felt indebted to him for his honesty and feedback, and for how openly he encouraged and complimented me along the way. An acknowledgment was the least I could do.

“I appreciate our connection. You're a real person. That's a rare thing and a gift. Please stay in touch!”
— Burt

A few weeks later, when I received the first copy from the printer, I took a picture of the acknowledgment section mentioning Burt and sent it to him. I expressed my worry again but also asked for his current whereabouts so I could send him a copy of the book. “This will be my last attempt at contacting him,” I told myself.

And it was.

Sadly, no reply has found my inbox yet. The one thing I did receive was an automated message from his website provider that his subscription had been canceled. His website is now offline. From his last email:

“I've also continued to paint. And it's a fine way to detach from the discursive mental labyrinthe.

I am very happy for you. Reach out any time Rey.”
— Burt

To make matters even stranger, something else happened. Burt and I were connected on LinkedIn. Past tense because the connection was removed, but his account is still somewhat active. I am 100% confident that he had plenty of connections, but now, he has only 60-ish. He didn’t reject nor accept my new connection request, and his account only comments on LinkedIn posts by one single author: someone selling language training certifications. Coincidentally, Burt’s bio was updated, showing that he is now supposedly a language coach for — surprise — that same certification institute.

Something is off here.

I have a lot of questions. My leading hypothesis is that Burt was forced to retire, maybe because of health issues, or worse, he has passed. This would explain his sudden disappearance, which is otherwise completely out of character for him.

If that’s true, however, what happened to his LinkedIn profile? There was activity long after our contact went silent. Could it be that the account was hijacked, and scammers are now using it to create fake engagement?

I’m unsure, and I’ve come to terms with the possibility that I’ll never know.

But I do miss hearing about his paintings. And cowboys.

Goodbye, Burt.