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According to io9, Ray Bradbury died this morning…
I only had the pleasure of meeting him once, but he had been the literary muse of my youth. I far preferred Bradbury's poetic prose to that of Heinlein, Clarke, or Asimov, the other giants of the time. I didn't care that the Ray's Mars was already outmoded by the time I found it; it didn't matter, because it was the humanity of those stories that made them sing. It was Ray's poetry and cadence that I tried (poorly) to emulate when I first ventured to write my own stories.
Meeting him in person was a highlight. I'd been tapped to write a YA series based on the universe of "A Sound of Thunder," and the publisher flew me into NYC to meet with Ray and talk over the plans. I didn't know what to expect, but what I found was a man who looked rather like my Uncle Dewey, and who had the same pleasant, warm, and welcoming attitude. He was gentle, kind, and friendly as he listened to me burble about plans for the books. I already loved the writer; I found that I liked the man as well, and that was a wonderful feeling. I'd brought along my ancient hardcover copy of "R is for Rocket," and he signed it for me.
It's a wonderful experience when the people you admire from afar turn out to be just as admirable in real life. That's not always the case.
I can only imagine the loss his close friends must feel now. His words have literally touched millions. We've lost a giant, and the world is now a colder place.
I only had the pleasure of meeting him once, but he had been the literary muse of my youth. I far preferred Bradbury's poetic prose to that of Heinlein, Clarke, or Asimov, the other giants of the time. I didn't care that the Ray's Mars was already outmoded by the time I found it; it didn't matter, because it was the humanity of those stories that made them sing. It was Ray's poetry and cadence that I tried (poorly) to emulate when I first ventured to write my own stories.
Meeting him in person was a highlight. I'd been tapped to write a YA series based on the universe of "A Sound of Thunder," and the publisher flew me into NYC to meet with Ray and talk over the plans. I didn't know what to expect, but what I found was a man who looked rather like my Uncle Dewey, and who had the same pleasant, warm, and welcoming attitude. He was gentle, kind, and friendly as he listened to me burble about plans for the books. I already loved the writer; I found that I liked the man as well, and that was a wonderful feeling. I'd brought along my ancient hardcover copy of "R is for Rocket," and he signed it for me.
It's a wonderful experience when the people you admire from afar turn out to be just as admirable in real life. That's not always the case.
I can only imagine the loss his close friends must feel now. His words have literally touched millions. We've lost a giant, and the world is now a colder place.