Today is the 99th anniversary of the birth of a man who filled me with the love of words, of sentences, of stories, of ideas, of possibilities.
A man who gave me the best advice on writing I’ve ever gotten (Don’t think, write.)
A man I wanted to name my daughter after. (The fam objected, alas.)
A man who looked out at a group of book-clutching, fannish outsiders at an environmental conference and said, in tones of wonder, “Oh, but you’re all my children” and brought us all to tears.
The man who wrote Something Wicked This Way Comes, the love of my literary life. I think it is one of the most beautiful and powerful works in the English language and I often read passages from it aloud just to hold the words and sentences in my mouth.
I love you Ray Bradbury, now and forever. Thank you.