Octavia Butler, a pioneer in speculative fiction (sci-fi, fantasy, horror) died Saturday. Her write up in the LA TIMES made me think. A family friend died a few days earlier, and we shut down our offices at DPP to attend the service this morning. These events congealed in my diseased brain (having a cold that I am convinced is bird flu) into the following idea:
Pick your favorite author, and write their eulogy. Say the things that sound so fanatical, so gushing, that we would usually await their passing to put pen to page or fingers to keyboard to acknowledge them. Then rewrite and send a good old fashioned fan letter.
The authors I have loved have impacted my life, my very thinking, in ways that make them seem most intimate to me. Yet I have never acknowledged their contribution. Our friend who passed away was beloved to us, and I know we told her early and often. Yet Ms. Butler will never know what a "Kindred" spirit she truly was. A little too late, I tell you Ms. Butler, your voice will be missed.
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