![]() ![]() The best obituary comes from Jo Walton it casts the widest net and hews closest to my heart. Margaret Atwood pays cool tribute from her isolate tower, as usual. David Mitchell remembers how she urged him to amp up the thing everyone else said to tone down. Neil Gaiman remarks that he would rather be criticized by her than be praised by any other author. The tributes arrive, one after another the tears follow, wave after wave. So I sit down at the table and begin once more the work, my work with words, this time plying it to find a road out of the land of dust and shadows, back to the green grove, the sun’s light, the empty sky.īefore I write I read. If I have learned anything in this life, it is to listen to my mothers. A biological parent delivering advice from a literary one. In the evening, my mom sends me a text: “Are you ok? I saw one of her quotes ‘Go on and do your work. The impact she had on my life has been unfathomable, but so it was for countless around the world, across countries and cultures. No matter how keen the loss felt, my relationship with her had always been one-sided, reader to author, writer to muse, apprentice to master. The well wishes mount and I do not know how to contain them. ![]() I am grateful for their thoughtfulness and ashamed at the attention. The messages stream in, from friends, acquaintances, strangers. ![]()
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