I don’t know how many of you caught my post at Turtleduck Press mid-February about how I believe that we are not only a product of our experiences, but also what we’re exposed to, and how important books can be to a young child.
What brought on such introspection was the death of Brian Jacques, author of the Redwall books, which I was in love with when I was little.
And this past weekend, Diana Wynne Jones, one of my literary idols, passed away. (Patricia Wrede has a lovely post about Ms. Jones at her blog. It warms the cockles* of my cold, dead heart to know that my two favorite authors were friends with each other.)
I took my mother to see Lois Lowry (Of The Giver and Number the Stars fame) give a talk at a local bookstore on Monday. When she came in, my mother leaned over and whispered, “She’s getting so old,” to me. Ms. Lowry is 74.
Life happens. People die. But I admit it’s a bit like losing family. A good book is like a dear friend, always welcome to visit, and by extension, I can’t help but love the people who bring them to me.
And I can’t help but wonder about the stories that go with them, that the world never gets to see. As a writer myself, oh, the stories. They are never-ending. I will never be able to write all the stories in my head. What characters did the world never get to love? What places did they never get to visit?
There will be new authors, new books. But I can’t help but miss the ones that have given me so much over the years.
* The dictionary informs me that a cockle is a type of mollusk. I am not sure where this expression comes from or why it exists, but you all know my love of invertebrate sea creatures, so I continue to use it, usually inappropriately.