Ray Bradbury is dead.
You probably know that.
In the annals of my youth, Ray Bradbury was the first author I recall flipping out over. I don’t yet recall if it was The Martian Chronicles or Dandelion Wine. But it was something. He was a storyteller and something more – a lyricist. His words wove together so finely you could never see the seems. It was like watching a loom creating a river.
I once adapted a story for stage – a boy who grows mushrooms.
I devoured his writing and have not read much for many years. Have I outgrown him? No. It’s his writing, though, that really inspired me to write. And so I will.
So I will.
