Grief as a Creative Act: Jesse Mechanic on His Graphic-Memoir The Last Time We Spoke
The Last Time We Spoke is a book that writer, journalist, and author Jesse Mechanic had been avoiding for years. It is, after all, a graphic memoir detailing the aftermath of his mother’s death from cancer when he was fourteen. Mechanic knew that sitting with the pain that accompanied telling this story would be no small undertaking. So he put the story off. But when he had kids, he started considering the loss and the fragility of memory—his mother’s memory—in a new way. Suddenly, the possibility of creating a monument for his mother became something to explore.
Though the grief in The Last Time We Spoke is anchored by Mechanic’s deeply vulnerable narration and illustration—Mechanic composed all of the art in the book himself—there’s also something universal about it. There are the unyielding questions about how we endure, lose, and grieve. There are the tireless negotiations with a memory that moves stubbornly away from us. And there are the seemingly impossible ways we must learn to make peace with absence: “Telling someone to cherish every moment is ridiculous,” Mechanic writes. “It’s ridiculous, but it’s also a noble enterprise. So I am going to try. For you I am going to try to exist within this ridiculous, impossible cliché.”
At times addressing his mother and at times addressing any reader who has ever felt grief’s eclipsing power, The Last Time We Spoke is part guidebook, part elegy. It invites readers into the fluid, unsteady terrain between remembering and surrendering to memory’s distortion. Embedded in this exploration is a powerful study of the way naming grief can also be a way of naming love. Mechanic and I spoke over the phone about how art can become a bridge between the living and the lost, the strange phenomenon in the small town he grew up in, and learning to channel a story through both words and art. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
A.D. Lauren-Abunassar: Given your background as both an artist and a journalist-writer, I’m curious if you can think back on when you began thinking of telling this story? Particularly in a way that brought both the visual and the textual together.
Jesse Mechanic: It went through several iterations. I always wanted to write books and fiction. But I had kind of been avoiding writing about this particular topic. When I got a bit older and I had kids a few years ago, I started thinking about the loss and wanting to explore it a bit more. And so I started writing, and it was initially much longer, probably about 130 pages of a strict nonfiction novella.
I tried to make it more concise over the years. But then I also realized that to fully express what I wanted to express with the story, I really wanted illustrations. I reached out to some artists who were friends of mine, and I gave them a few ideas. They sent some illustrations back, and they were fantastic. But I soon realized there was no way I could describe the visuals I wanted adequately enough. If anyone was going to draw them, I had to be the one. I loved drawing growing up; but I never really did it professionally, and I hadn’t done it in a while. Still, I just said, Screw it, I’m gonna give it a try. And it was interesting, because as soon as I started drawing, all the illustrations just came pouring out. Like they were all just sitting there waiting. I had a draft of 130 pages of illustrations in a month and a half. It was crazy.
ADLA: Can you speak a little bit more about why you think you found yourself resisting the story?
JM: I knew it was going to be a bit of a painful experience, and I think it’s a topic that I had not been thinking about that much. But then I was looking over a lot of books that I loved, and a lot of them—even if they were novels—had very distinct, personal aspects to them. When I was writing, I found it was also a bit of a therapeutic exercise. Just to be like, Well, I should probably mine this and see what comes up. There’s also been a ton of books on grief. And I was a bit like, I don’t know if I have much to say about it. Then of course when I started writing about it, I realized I actually had a whole lot to say.
ADLA: I’m curious about that because it does sound like there was so much revision involved to figure out how to best tell this story. How did you figure out what you wanted to include versus what you wanted to keep private?
JM: Well, I tried to keep in mind my mission for the book, which was that I wanted to write the book I would have wanted to read as a [teenager] going through this. So I didn’t want to make it very long. I wanted it to sort of bounce around in time, revolving around this last-time-we-spoke motif. Then it kind of became almost… not a poem, but more of just this free-flowing narrative. And when I switched to that mode, it was interesting because [I’d] distilled it a ton.
And then when Street Noise Books picked it up, they wanted me to expand. They said bring [the reader] in more. We still kept it short—it only takes under two hours to read, which is what I wanted. But they did a good job telling me how to add without sacrificing the concision of the story.
ADLA: The slipperiness of memory is something I feel especially present in the book. I’m thinking particularly of when you write: “Memories are much more than memories; they’re worlds, lives, and touchstones; they’re everything that we are… The clarity fades. The images within the memories degrade.” Did telling this story feel like a way of preserving memory or accepting and surrendering to the way it inevitably transforms and blurs?
JM: I’d say it was definitely both. The one thing I wonder when I go back and read it is: Should I have put more in about my mom as a person? More of her life? But when I brought that up to the editors, they thought I might have a different book about that. This was more about just the experience of the loss [itself]. I did want to preserve it because a lot of the memories have faded to a degree. It was probably ten or so years ago when I finally started to write this stuff down.
ADLA: It’s interesting to hear you speak about the dual audience built into this—your mother and those who have experienced or are experiencing loss. Was that something you always knew you were going to do, or is that an intention you grew closer to as you were working?
JM: I think as it went along, I definitely wanted to create a book that I’m proud of, art that I’m proud of, that honored my mom. I tried to think, Okay, if this happened to me, wouldn’t it be amazing if my daughter ended up writing a whole book about it and doing all this wonderful creative stuff in the aftermath of such a terrible thing? But then as it went along, I also definitely wanted to try to reach out to others too because it’s so tough [to process grief].
I did a book event two or three weeks ago and a bunch of my friends who I knew from that time drove in. During the Q&A, they’d said they [hadn’t] really known until they’d read the book how much I was struggling at that time. Because kids can hide it. I realized there probably are a lot of kids who feel like this right now. So I did want to have something that spoke to them directly.
ADLA: You mentioned when you were speaking with your editors you faced this question about if you should bring in more of your mom’s story. Do you think that there’s another book that you would like to write continuing that story of your mom? Or does it feel like you’ve been able to achieve a sense of closure for the story with this?
JM: I don’t think there’s closure because I have this novel that I’m hoping will be out eventually. I’ve been working on it for a long time and part of the story is—and this part I didn’t mention in The Last Time We Spoke—I grew up in this kind of cursed little suburban neighborhood where my best friend’s mom died of cancer when he was twelve. And then my friend across the street, his father died in a car crash when he was seven. And then my mom died when I was fourteen. So we had a group of five kids that hung out all the time, and three of us, by the time we were fourteen, had lost a parent.
For this book, I was just kind of going into that experience, and there is a fictionalized version of my mom in [the novel]. So hopefully I’m not done exploring it.
ADLA: When you’re thinking about all the different manifestations of grief, do you find that there are moments—especially when you were working on The Last Time We Spoke—where you considered what drawing could express about loss and grief that writing couldn’t? Or vice versa?
JM: Definitely. I didn’t really storyboard or plan out the illustrations. But as I went along, it was fascinating the way I would get to a page and sit there for a minute and then just kind of start little undulating lines or a little design. It just felt right with the words. You know, a lot of the illustrations are a direct expression of what’s [written] on the page. But some others are more abstract. It was kind of just whatever felt right as I went along.
ADLA: There’s another moment where you write, “Art and rebellion helped me make it through high school. They helped me escape.” Today, how do you define this relationship between art and rebellion or art and escape?
JM: That was an interesting part of writing the book—realizing how much creativity and self-expression and art and all of that helped me. Both in the sense of experiencing art as a recipient and then also as someone trying to create it.
Rebelling against what people expect, or against the status quo or whatever it is, is something that I’ve changed my approach to slightly as I’ve gotten older. But I still definitely have that and kind of cherish that. Not in an aggressive, mean way. But just in trying to remain on course and questioning things and creating in ways that might feel uncomfortable too. I mean, that’s definitely part of this book.
I didn’t really discuss the intrusive thoughts and the mental health issues that are in the book now. But then as I got into that, I understood it was an honest depiction of how I felt and how a lot of people felt. I think trying to hold that mentality is important. It’s one reason I really wanted to work with independent publishers on this book; I didn't want it to be triangulated for sales or anything like that.
ADLA: Going off of that, in your work outside of this book, you’ve written about everything from Palestine to the opioid crisis to white privilege and Captain America… I’m curious as you’ve written across these topics, and as you’ve turned to write toward the personal, do you feel you have an understanding of the role art might play—if any—in confronting points of crisis and devastation [whether collective or individual]? Or the role it plays in ushering in some era of healing and change?
JM: I think it plays a huge role in both for me. I mean, a lot of people who create art are usually empathetic people who are trying to connect with other people. Especially the ones I really respect. I remember, growing up, [that] if a musician would bring up a topic, whether it was Palestine or whatever it was, I would think [about how] I respected what that artist created so I was more inclined to look into what they were saying. I think reading articles about something is great but it can also get a little monotonous, especially now with how fractured and corporate the media is. It’s tough to even tell what is true. So I definitely gain an extra level of respect from any sort of artist who puts themselves out there and makes a statement when it would be much easier if they didn't. I think art is a hugely important way to explore all of these things.
ADLA: Something I ask a lot of folks lately is where they find hope. It sounds like, for you, art is maybe a place where you find hope? Especially for the possibility of a better future?
JM: Definitely. Art definitely does that for me. So does the process of creating.
ADLA: There’s so much about this book that makes it such an intimate story, both because of the loss, but even just literally in how some of your illustrations portray the inside of your brain at certain times or your inner monologue going off. That said, there’s a universal sense to the project as well because of how universal grief and loss are. As you discussed this book with others, whether in Q&As and book events or even just in the drafting stages, have readers shared responses that have shifted how you think about your own story?
JM: I don’t know if it’s shifted much but I’ve definitely had incredible interactions with people who have read the book and written to me or who showed up at an event and just really confirmed my reasons for writing. I hope it continues to be shared in bereavement circles and hospice and [that] even some therapists know about it. I hope it can continue to be used in that way.
A.D. Lauren-Abunassar (@lauren.abunassar) is a Palestinian-American writer, poet, and journalist. Her work has appeared in POETRY, Narrative, Rattle, Prairie Schooner, Boulevard, and elsewhere. Her first book, Coriolis, was winner of the 2023 Etel Adnan Poetry Prize. She is a 2025 NEA fellow in poetry. More at adlauren-abunassar.com.
Jesse Mechanic (@jessemechanic) is an opinion columnist, essayist, and artist. He has published work in Mother Jones, In These Times, HuffPost, Truthout, and other publications. Jesse enjoys woodworking, the television show Cheers, and working diligently to dismantle the various oppressive systems that define our world. The Last Time We Spoke is his debut graphic novel.