Letter to Ray Bradbury
Dear Mr. Bradbury,
I've written and rewritten this letter more times than I can count. I'm sure you heard parts of it in variations before, but, this is my life, my voice. I never sent you this letter because I was never sure where to send it. I realized some time ago that I would never actually meet you. But it gave me joy to know that you were still out there, last of the grandfathers of SF, writing.
I know people who cried when Jim Henson or Dr. Seuss died. I never did. I was a precocious reader with a strict bedtime. I didn't see the Muppet Show until I was in my twenties. I don't remember reading Dr. Seuss myself.
No my childhood influences that mattered most were you and Stephen King. I started reading you first, and as I was reading King at ten, I was probably reading your stories when I was eight or nine.
A friend of mine described your work as good but dark. I have to admit that I never thought of it as dark. You always broke my heart. You were the first author to make me cry. ("The Exiles" if anyone is curious.) Maybe your stories were dark, but you made beauty of it. And finding beauty in the darkness was something I sorely needed.
When I was lonely, I crept into the closet with Margot ("All Summer in a Day."). When I daydreamed, my eyes became golden, and I could smell red dust. ("Dark they were and Golden Eyed") I was certain that I would live on Mars someday, because of you. And if I died by some accident in space? I believed that some good would come of it somewhere. ("Kaleidoscope")
You were my best friend when I needed one most. I read you in the times when I was pretty sure live wasn't worth living. It is fair to say that you were one of the writers who kept me alive. You were one of the writers who made me want to be a writer. And every word of every foreward felt like it was spoken to me.
You said once that the day you stopped having stories inside of you would be the day you died. I hope that you did not go to sleep knowing you were empty. I hope that you held that last shimmering story in your own mind as you left us.
I will miss you, but, at least I get to keep all of your stories. All but that last one.
Love,
Amanda
This entry was originally posted at http://dulcinbradbury.dreamwidth.org/1128150.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
I've written and rewritten this letter more times than I can count. I'm sure you heard parts of it in variations before, but, this is my life, my voice. I never sent you this letter because I was never sure where to send it. I realized some time ago that I would never actually meet you. But it gave me joy to know that you were still out there, last of the grandfathers of SF, writing.
I know people who cried when Jim Henson or Dr. Seuss died. I never did. I was a precocious reader with a strict bedtime. I didn't see the Muppet Show until I was in my twenties. I don't remember reading Dr. Seuss myself.
No my childhood influences that mattered most were you and Stephen King. I started reading you first, and as I was reading King at ten, I was probably reading your stories when I was eight or nine.
A friend of mine described your work as good but dark. I have to admit that I never thought of it as dark. You always broke my heart. You were the first author to make me cry. ("The Exiles" if anyone is curious.) Maybe your stories were dark, but you made beauty of it. And finding beauty in the darkness was something I sorely needed.
When I was lonely, I crept into the closet with Margot ("All Summer in a Day."). When I daydreamed, my eyes became golden, and I could smell red dust. ("Dark they were and Golden Eyed") I was certain that I would live on Mars someday, because of you. And if I died by some accident in space? I believed that some good would come of it somewhere. ("Kaleidoscope")
You were my best friend when I needed one most. I read you in the times when I was pretty sure live wasn't worth living. It is fair to say that you were one of the writers who kept me alive. You were one of the writers who made me want to be a writer. And every word of every foreward felt like it was spoken to me.
You said once that the day you stopped having stories inside of you would be the day you died. I hope that you did not go to sleep knowing you were empty. I hope that you held that last shimmering story in your own mind as you left us.
I will miss you, but, at least I get to keep all of your stories. All but that last one.
Love,
Amanda
This entry was originally posted at http://dulcinbradbury.dreamwidth.org/1128150.html. Please comment there using OpenID.