A Tribute to Jim Boring Jim Boring—editor, writer, business communications wizard, proud Irishman, and one of the most gifted (and blunt) souls I’ve ever known—left us in 2024. The world feels a little less sharp without him. Jim was my editor, my con-
And what a hilarious odd couple we made: the stoner artist and the hard-drinking Irish editor. It shouldn’t have worked, but it did—beautiful- ly. Later, when my art started gaining traction and I launched Shoosty Bugs, I worried aloud to Jim: “How can I be the author of a Holocaust book and now a book about bugs?” I told him the bug book needed gravity, weight. Jim took the reins and wrote the text himself—a mas- terpiece laced with his signature sarcastic po- etry. He relabeled every piece art for that show, turning the whole thing into something wick- edly clever and profound. I'm not sure whether the people loved my art or his writing. Either way, his contribution gave me the confidence to tackle one of the biggest projects of my career. Jim wasn’t just an editor; he was a mentor, a provocateur, and a friend who pushed me to be better while reminding me that “good enough with warts” is often exactly right. I hate to lose that knowledge bank, that blunt truth-teller, that irrepressible spirit. So here’s to you, Jim—may the road rise to meet you, may the wind be always at your back, may the sun shine warm upon your face, and until we meet again, may God hold you in the hollow of His hand. Sláinte.
sultant for the family business, and, improbably, my partner in some of the most important cre- ative work of my life. He had a pen that could cut through bullshit like a hot knife through butter, a mind stocked with knowledge I’ll never replace, and an uncanny knack for being right—always. As an alcoholic Irishman, he lived life on his own terms: direct, unfiltered, and full of fire. When I was handed the impossible task of writing a Holocaust survivor’s story—my first book, *The Horse Adjutant*—I tried to pass it to Jim. He spent a year visiting Leon Schagrin every Thursday, sharing drinks and stories, but only managed four pages. I took over with the help of anther friend who took the raw testi- mony and turned it into prose, filling gaps with research and other survivors’ accounts. Jim must have edited it twenty times. I was stubborn— he kept trying to refine my voice, and I fought him tooth and nail to keep it mine. We battled, we compromised, and we produced something imperfectly perfect. Jim said, “the definition of a first edition includes all the warts.”That made me satisfied. He made my poor grammar and spelling readable, while encouraging my pro- ductivity. We were a great team.
"Always remember to forget the troubles that passed away. But never forget to remember the blessing that come each day." - Irish send off
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