It’s been a rough year for writers. In short, they have been dropping like flies.
Robert Jordan, master of the fantasy novel and impetus for my brother’s pleas “to just finish it already,” died this past September at age 58 from primary amyloidosis with cardiomyopathy after dazzling the misplaced Star Trek masses for decades with his Wheel of Time series.
Children’s author, Madeleine L’Engle, died at 88 this past September. A Wrinkle in Time, her masterpiece, was rejected by 26 publishers before being snagged by the editors at Farrar, Straus & Giroux. According to the New York Times obituary, the book is now in its 69th printing. Have to love those kind of author stories.
The modern incarnation of Mark Twain, Kurt Vonnegut, who was the author of Slaughter House Five, Cat’s Cradle, and the majority of my literary based nightmares, died this past April at 84 from complications after a fall. Satire will never be the same.
Then this morning, the self-immortalized Norman Mailer passed away, also at age 84, of acute renal failure.
What is it about age 84 for writers?
Admittedly, Mr. Mailer was probably more well known for his self promotion than writing. Who else throws out that their writing “will have the deepest influence of any work being done by an American novelist in these years”? Regardless, I’m a fan of any one who publishes their first book at 25. Beautiful.
Sidney Sheldon, best known for creating I Dream of Genie (pre-Nicole Kidman nose itch) also wrote Master of the Game and Rage of Angels. He passed away at 89 in January from pneumonia.
David Halberstam, a Pulitzer-Prize winner that covered topics from Vietnam to the NBA, was killed in a car accident this past April. He was 73. His New York Times obituary said he died doing what he loved, reporting.
This leaves me with two thoughts. One, what a beautiful way to live life. Living, breathing, and writing. Writing until the very end, whenever and whatever it may be. Which, given the odds, is apparently until some unpronounceable disease seizes one in their 80’s.
And secondly, my maxim to only read dead authors has been anything but limiting this year. “So it goes.”
4 responses so far ↓
1 Linda // Nov 12, 2007 at 10:07 am
I cried the day I heard Kurt Vonnegut died. As a child, I devoured his stories like potato chips. Later, as an adult, I found new meaning and insight and realized the beauty and power of his prose. Along with Ray Bradbury, the New Testament, and Shirer’s Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, Vonnegut was most influential in shaping my philosophy and politics about living. Peace…
2 towwas // Nov 12, 2007 at 5:47 pm
Do you really just read dead authors?
3 Sarah Moffett // Nov 13, 2007 at 3:21 pm
Linda. He was a visionary. Someday I hope to hear more from you on how Vonnegut shaped your world. One thing is for sure. The man didn’t leave fingerprints. He left face plants. Albeit graceful and memorable ones.
Towwas. Yes ma’am. Except for Rowling. And the occasional desperate reach.
4 Someone ban my book. Please. // Nov 21, 2007 at 11:00 am
[…] And on a more morbid front that I’d rather not imitate anytime soon, another author has bit the dust. Ira Levin, author of Stepford Wives, Rosemary’s Baby, and a slew of other Hollywood-ized gold makers, died of a heart attack last week. He was 78. He joins Vonnegut, Mailer, and a slew of others on the the 2007 list of literary deceased. […]
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