It is a bittersweet moment, writing reflections for the final print version of Liberty. While I feel that the transition to the internet is long overdue, there has always been something special here. I have cherished my contributions, and tortured the deadlines, for over 11 years now, ever since Bill Bradford invited me to join the eclectic group of writers he assembled here. The simplicity of the magazine, its two-color cover filled with text, seemed like something from an era gone by. Liberty had the feeling of an underground newspaper, and I always felt as if I were writing for one. The subscribers of Liberty are like a private club; there is a freedom in writing things for an audience limited to the reader base of the magazine. There was also a kick going into bookstores across the country and picking up a copy just to see my name in a town I had never visited before. (I hate to admit I did that much more frequently than a humble man should.) I am shocked that it’s over, even though I knew the transition was bound to happen eventually. In the electronic age, when opinions flash across the internet within seconds of a news event, having to wait two months between the event and the magazine’s publication seemed quite archaic. But for the same reason, the things I wrote here were forced into a depth that transcended the 24-hour news cycle. While I eagerly await the new era of Liberty, I cannot deny that a part of me grieves.
