The literary world has lost a wonderful and talented writer. Sue Grafton, author of the “Alphabet” series featuring feisty P.I. Kinsey Millhone, passed away December 28 surrounded by family. The below is taken from the NBC News website:
Grafton began her “alphabet series” in 1982 with “A is for Alibi.” Her most recent book, “Y is for Yesterday,” was published in August.
“Many of you also know that she was adamant that her books would never be turned into movies or TV shows, and in that same vein, she would never allow a ghost writer to write in her name,” her daughter wrote. “Because of all of those things, and out of the deep abiding love and respect for our dear sweet Sue, as far as we in the family are concerned, the alphabet now ends at Y.”
Humphrey said Grafton had been struggling to find an idea for “Z” while undergoing treatment and losing weight.
“Nothing’s been written,” he told The Associated Press in a telephone interview. “There is no Z.”
He added with a laugh, “Nobody in this family will ever use the letter Z again.”
Fans can take heart that she lives on through the body of her work. Rest in peace, Sue Grafton.
Although I did sign a contract with a new publisher (thanks Down and Out Books for reviving The Rook!), I have been writing a lot of short stories and personal essays in addition to working on my novel. The stories have been largely autobiographical, just tidbits that stuck with me from childhood. I was fortunate enough to have two pieces published lately, one called “Family History,” which you can read here at gravel, and another entitled “Cool Friend,” which you can read here at The Citron Review.
As for the essays I’ve been writing, those are of the extremely personal variety. For whatever reason, I feel compelled of late to muse (read: obsess) about my three decades long struggle with OCD and Panic Disorder; my loving but complicated relationship with my father; and my attempts to stay sane as a new stay-at-home dad. As I’ve been writing about my life, I realized something: I’m getting better. Not smarter. Not richer. Not better looking. Not taller (certainly not taller). I’m getting better. Example: finally, after more than a quarter of a century, I no longer feel the need to refer to myself as a “neurotic,” an easy and ugly term to hang on one’s self. Finally, now that I am jobless and in the presence of a hilarious and difficult and intelligent four-year old all day, I no longer feel such extreme anxiety. I feel at ease. I feel calm. I feel capable, which would never have cracked the top 50 adjectives I would’ve used to describe myself even one year ago. Maybe I was not (or am not) cut out to have a “career,” and without the pressures of a job, I feel lighter. Or maybe I am just getting older and wiser. I don’t know. I do know that these essays I’ve written lately have brought up some painful memories–some of them very recent memories–but the pain has been twinged with humor. . .
Which is a long winded way of saying that I sold one of those essays, a piece called “Time to Get Clean” about me doing something extremely gross (and extremely funny) in an effort to not pass on my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder to my son. I’m proud to say that sometime in June my essay will appear in OC87 Recovery Diaries, an excellent publication that focuses on stories of mental health and recovery. If you suffer from some type of mental illness or you know someone who does, I’d encourage you to check out OC87 Recovery Diaries here. Some of the stories are funny, some are sad, all are true and meaningful.