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.

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