In case tomorrow never comes

I’ll beg forgiveness in advance for what is bound to be a melancholy post. Here, also in advance, is your baby otters chaser. Feel free to return to it as needed.

In the U.S. it’s nearly Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite holiday, no matter how I end up celebrating it (this year it will be just me, my husband, and Chinese food). For me it’s a happy, contemplative holiday on which I also usually get to do a lot of writing. When I was trying to come up with something to blog about today, I considered Thanksgiving as a topic–the books and authors I’m grateful for, the guidance and examples of my teachers and peers, maybe my past experience with NaNoWriMo. We could all spend more time thinking of things we’re grateful for–great. I had a topic.

And then we lost Anne McCaffrey.

It’s a funny way of putting it, as if we misplaced her somehow. It doesn’t sound as grave as it is: She’s gone. Three generations have grown up on her work. How many of us said “thank you” before she went? How many of us wish that we had?

Charles Tan has a round-up of tribute threads here.

Just last week many of us on Twitter decided to send fan mail to authors whose work had moved us. There are so many authors whose work we love, who have shaped us, who are still here. As a fan it felt good to send it. I’ve heard reports that it felt good to the authors to receive it.

Suddenly it seems urgent. We can take a minute to write to them, to say thank you. Today, tonight, right now–because tomorrow might be too late.

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  • Thank you, Christie.

    It does feel awfully like we mislaid her somehow, like she’s just in the wrong terminal.  I never told an author last year how his book stuck in my head after I did the c/e… and he died unexpectedly this year. 

    She went between.