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Dear Readers,

Reading The Son of Suleman by Eric Jerome Dickey brought me to tears before I even made it past the first few pages.

Not because of the story.

But because this was it. The last time I would experience new prose from my favorite author. The last first read. And that realization sat heavy.

And yet, in true EJD fashion, he did what he has always done — he delivered.

Professor Pi Maurice Suleman is layered, brilliant, complicated. Even the way his name is explained reminded me why I love Dickey’s writing so much. He never just writes a character. He builds them. Thoughtfully. Intentionally.

What stood out most to me was the perspective.

An adjunct professor navigating sexual harassment in the workplace — from a man’s point of view. That’s not a narrative we often see explored with depth. But EJD didn’t shy away from it. He let us feel Pi’s apprehension. His fear. His vulnerability. He made it real. And that matters.

The relationship between Pi and Gemma Buckingham? Steamy. Intense. Tangible. It felt lived-in, not manufactured.

And then there’s Komorebi Jackson.

To me, she read like a metaphor — a reminder that some people would rather dismantle someone else’s character than build their own. Instead of pursuing greatness with integrity, they chase it through manipulation, intimidation, and entitlement. The commentary on sexual harassment, assault, power, and white privilege was sharp. Uncomfortable at times. Necessary.

This book felt like a farewell.

Not in a sentimental way. But in a “this is my voice, fully formed” way.

Eric Jerome Dickey’s writing style is unlike any other I’ve experienced in all my years of reading. The rhythm. The vocabulary. The emotional intensity. He challenges you and pulls you in at the same time.

Closing this book felt final.

Rest well, EJD.

Your words still breathe.

From Love,

The Letters

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