As stated a few days ago, I've lost a dear friend and fellow author. She used to pop in here and leave messages sometimes. There's so much I might wish to say about this loss, but the words won't come. The web resounds with tributes. Very few outside her family knew of the illness she kept so private. I happened to be one of them. My burden of secrecy is now lifted, but in such a sad way. I must remind myself I have many cherished memories to amuse and comfort me, and stacks of her entertaining novels--read and to be read. The final one will be published in November.
Ten years ago today I lost another dear friend and fellow author in a sudden, violent, and terrible way. And although she had repeatedly signaled the trouble that ended with her murder, it was completely unexpected and shocking. When her emails to me surfaced in press accounts, the broadcast media spotlight fell upon me but I stepped away from it, refusing any and all interview requests--20/20, Inside Edition, whatever.
For some reason I cannot help analysing the deaths of these two women who had a talent for living, a talent for mothering, a talent for writing. Each of them touched me in significant ways. Each died before her time. One peacefully, privately, surrounded by family. One on a suburban street, brutally.
How thankful I am, for the privilege of knowing them. They both set a wonderful example of creativity and professionalism and bravery--perhaps their greatest gifts to me. I need to acknowledge it, and celebrate it.
And now return to my own work, as they would expect me to do.