Octavia Butler died on Friday.
I feel a real sense of loss. I had only just discovered Butler as an author; I recently read her latest, Fledgling. I enjoyed her work immensely. I feel robbed of the anticipation of her new work.
I still have her other 13 books ahead of me, but I loved the foundation she built in Fledgling and wanted to read more. It was unusual and thought-provoking. And entertaining.
I’m distantly sad at the idea that such a talent died at only 58. But I’m personally, deeply, disappointed that her writing is complete.
ToDo: Invent Brilliant Title 
Leave a Reply