Anne McCaffrey died today. She was my first favorite author. (I think. Asimov came soon after.) My tattered copy of Dragonflight is the same copy I read for the first time when I was ten (ish), after Dad and Corey read it. So is my copy of The White Dragon. (I had to replace Dragonquest – it survived being dunked in a pool because of a lousy toss (NOT my own), but not falling into chunks on a school bus after a sudden stop.) I always wanted to meet her. My never-quite-planned trip to Ireland would have included a trip to County Wicklow, just to be where she was, where she imagined and wrote. She seemed so cool. She had horses and cats and all those worlds in her mind that are now in mine…well, damn. I might be tearing up. Reading the comment thread here (he’s how I found out) isn’t helping.
Inane Chatter
What were you expecting?
