Gore Vidal, celebrated author, playwright, dies

Gore Vidal, celebrated author, playwright, dies

I try to mark the passing of a giant in our industry and there are few giants as large as Gore Vidal.

Brilliant and opinionated, Vidal was a thinking man's writer who was always willing -- quite willing, in fact -- to talk truth to stupid. (And he was the sole judge of what was stupid.)

I don't write like he did. I am not as willing to write or opinionate -- is that actually a word? -- to the edge. And I try not to criticize other writers in public.

But I have to admire a people who stands up for their beliefs and battle publicly for them. In a way, he could afford to do that. His was a life of privilege and breeding. Any fall from grace would be cushioned. Yet he didn't let that stop him from saying what he thought.

Like it or not, there aren't a lot of public people like he. And that will be missed with Vidal's passing.

Iconic science fiction writer Ray Bradbury dies at 91

Iconic science fiction writer Ray Bradbury dies at 91

Ray Bradbury, perhaps the world's greatest science fiction writer, died today. He was 91.

Probably his best known works are Fahrenheit 451, Something Wicked this Way Comes and The Martian Chronicles, of which I particularly liked Fahrenheit. But he was more than just those early works. His short stories are classics of the genre.

He was a great writer and like with all great writers, he will be missed.

Keep him and his family in your thoughts and prayers.

Thanks for reading.

Red Planet Blues

I was in a lot of theater productions in high school, particularly in my junior and senior years, when I was in virtually everything my school staged. Oddly enough, though, the thought of going on stage terrified me. You wouldn't know it but I'd be a nervous wreck beforehand, although I truly loved actually being on stage. I loved the audience and I loved the applause. Probably my best times in high school were being in theater.

Something that calmed me down in the time before going on stage was that for a long time I only let one person apply my theater makeup. She was this skinny little white girl named Kerry Lou Kirch.

Kerry and I developed a certain bond through the ritual of preparing to go on stage, and later when we worked on a column together for our school's daily newspaper, The Echo. That bond has lasted over the decades and will probably continue to the end of my natural life -- and probably beyond that.

My friend Kerry Lou died last Sunday in Georgia doing something she always loved and which I never understood -- skydiving.

Ker had a joy of life and of living that I have witnessed in few people. She experienced her share of sadness and sorrow, as do we all, but I can never think of a time when she wasn't happy. I can't think of a picture I have seen of her when she wasn't smiling.

She was smart and talented, spoke fluent German (a language I could never master despite years of lessons in high school and college), and loved animals (particularly dogs), the outdoors, sex and skydiving.

And she was a writer.

Perhaps the best expression of who Ker was is on display in RED PLANET BLUES (Mothership Press, 1998), which she wrote under the name Kerry Lou. Dedicated to her mother Fran (another extraordinary woman), Red Planet, as the cover says, is about "interstellar love and the end of the world as we know it." It is the story a present-day Earth woman named Amber who falls in love with and marries a blue-skinned Martian, who comes to Earth to warn it of its destruction if humans don't change their ways.

Like Kerry, it is about fantasy and romance, and about peace, the environment and saving the planet. It is part science fiction and part erotic fiction.

(In the inscription of my signed copy, Kerry says "Martians make better lovers" and thanked me as a "fellow writer and inspiration." I'm not sure what the inspiration was about but there is a thin black journalist in the novel named Dab Mitchell. Dab is a minor character until late in the book but he does manage to get some nookie. All I could say was, as a member of the human species, I was glad to make a contribution to intergalactic peace and understanding.)

Kerry visited us both in Philadelphia and in Indianapolis. And though their encounters with Kerry were only for a day or two at a time, even my daughters remember her with joy and fondness. It is because Kerry had an incredible mind and imagination. And she reached out to my kids in an uninhibited way that made her visits memorable to them.

(Though she was invited, of course, Kerry missed my wedding. But I forgave her. She attended her sister's wedding, which was the same day.)

Kerry loved to explore the idea parallel universes and extraterrestrial or interdimensional life. And at Christmas and birthdays she would send me peace angels to help guide my way. I will truly miss those cards and greetings.

Kerry's mother and two sisters are planning a celebration of her life this Saturday in Sarasota. And it kills me that I won't be able to make it. But a 4 o'clock, I will celebrate the passing of one of my oldest friends, knowing she is soaring around somewhere with all the other peace angels.

Starting back in high school, Kerry Lou Kirch provided me with an example of how a joyous life should be lived. I will miss her but feel privileged to have known her.

May she soar in peace.

Thanks for reading.

The passing of an early mentor

I graduated from Shortridge High School, the oldest high school in Indianapolis. I am proud of that, and the tradition of excellence that produced the likes of Richard Lugar, Indiana’s senior U.S. senator, and the late Kurt Vonnegut.

Another product of the school’s great tradition was Jean Grubb, class of 1920. Miss Grubb not only was a product of the school, she went on to teach at Shortridge. She died two weeks at age 106. At the time of her death, Miss Grubb was the oldest living Shortridge grad.

In the mid-1940s, years before I was born, Miss Grubb, who had a master’s degree in journalism from Northwestern, was convinced to give up teaching math in addition to journalism and become the director of publications at Shortridge. It was a big deal. Like most schools, Shortridge had a yearbook. But like few in the country – only four others in the late 1960s – Shortridge had a daily student newspaper.

A daily newspaper. The Shortridge Daily Echo.

Miss Grubb was the faculty supervisor of the daily publication when Sen. Lugar wrote a column for the Thursday edition of the paper in the early 1950s and was still doing it years later when I wrote columns in my sophomore and junior years. As a senior, I was on the yearbook staff.

The Echo had a different staff of student editors and writers for each day so no student was overburdened.

In my second year of high school, a friend, Allen Carroll, and I wrote a gossip column called Spooe, under the byline of Chester and Chauncey. I was Chauncey. It was the first writing I ever had published. To this day it amazes me that none of my classmates ever figured out what Spooe meant until the end of the school year when we told them. Another friend, Kerry Kirch, and I wrote a column with a cartoon during my junior year.

I have lost touch with Allen but Kerry, who is now a published author, and I keep in contact.

I remember Miss Grubb as a great advisor, teacher and mentor. I perhaps wouldn’t be a writer today without her guidance so many years ago.

I last saw her last month at an all-school reunion for the rededication and opening of Shortridge as a high school. (It was closed in the 1980s and later reopened as a middle school.) The dedication was the day before her birthday. She was frail and in a wheelchair but was glad to be among so many of the students whose lives she had touched for so many years.

She was a great lady who loved teaching and writing, and who loved Shortridge.

Her family has my deepest sympathy and my gratitude.

Thanks for reading and keep writing.

The passing of a writer, II

I had another topic in mind for today but I just heard, sadly, that a fellow writer died several days ago. Her name was Pamela B. Levinson.

http://www.philly.com/philly/obituaries/41619432.html

I didn't personally know Pam. We met through a writing group online. But I found her to be funny, kind and loving. Her online comments showed a witty, likeable person who loved writing and who was open to providing suggestions and getting them.

We talked about where she lived in Villanova, which is on Philadelphia's Main Line, and Kensington, where she worked in the city. (It's funny, really. The Main Line is the location of one of my favorite films, A PHILADELPHIA STORY, with Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant, and Kensington was the birth place of Dr. Albert Barnes, who is the subject of my current work-in-progress, THE DEATH OF ART.) Kensington and the Main Line can be as different as night and day. But she moved between both everyday.

She also moved between the analytical and the creative everyday, from the world of accounting, which her job required, to the creative, which her writing required.

Pam finished her first novel, IT'S ONLY WORDS. And though it is unpublished, portions of this wonderful piece can be found on CreateSpace.

She put a wonderful voice into the world. It is silent now. And it will be missed.

Thanks for reading. And like Pam Levinson, keep writing.

John Updike and John Grisham

American literary giant John Updike died this week. It was a sad day for anyone who loves good, thoughtful literary prose. Updike was a prolific writer with a natural talent seen rarely except a couple of times in each generation. His Rabbitt series, first published more than 50 years ago, inspired a generation of writers.

But he was not loved by everyone, which isn't surprising. Who is? A British group awarded him a lifetime achievement award for bad writing. And Normal Mailer, apparently, opined that he was an author appreciated by readers who knew nothing about writing. Well, Mr. Mailer, I hate to inform you but most readers don't know anything about writing.

But I was listening to NPR last week to an Updike interview in which he laments the decline of literary fiction in America. It's true, of course, that readers today more likely look to James Patterson than to John Updike, or Sandra Brown instead of Alice Walker. But I think in the big world of books, there is more than enough room for literary fiction and commercial fiction.

And speaking of commercial fiction, John Grisham's new book,"The Associate," came out this week, just days after Updike's death. No one would confuse Grisham with a literary author. It's not. He's a commercial fiction author. But his books are readable and fun and enjoyable. So what's wrong with that?

I read the first couple of chapters of the book on Grisham's website before it was officially published. It seemed interesting in just the sort of way I enjoy.

A friend who lives near Grisham in Virginia thinks he is a hack. But both she and her husband are snobs in so many ways. So I am sure she won't like my novels because I am far more like Grisham than Updike.

I like to write. I don't apologize for it. But I am not a deep, deep thinker. It's just not who I am. So I don't have the talent to sit with the giants of American literature. But does that mean I shouldn't write? No, I don't think that at all. A writer is one who writes. And from it all, we just have to wait for the great ones, like Updike, to emerge.

Thanks for reading and don't give up on writing.

The passing of a wirter

There is a character (Marshall Watkins) in "Death at the Jungle-bunny Journal" who is directly patterned after a real person. And unfortunately this week, the real Marshall Watkins, whose name was Kendall Wilson, died. Kendall was a staple at The Philadelphia Tribune where he had spent much of the last four decades -- on and off.

As was said in his obit published in the Tribune, Kendall knew everyone in the city and everyone knew him. His list of contacts and sources was amazing. He lived hard, he drank hard and he worked hard. With his jacket and hat, he looked like a throw-back to reporters in the 30s and 40s. And regardless of the cold, he never wore an overcoat. Not trusting banks, he always cashed his check and carried cash. I can't imagine the amount of money he must have paid for money orders.

I remember working with him in 1997 on a series of articles for which he won a national award. It was on the attempt by large corporations to buy up locally owned minority funeral homes. Kendall's reporting was excellent and his work was well-written, which made the content editing much easier.

Since moving back to the Midwest, I have missed seeing Kendall, even on my trips back to the Trib. Kendall stopped working there on a regular basis several years ago. So I rarely saw him. But even when he wasn't there, Kendall was a presence at the paper. And it was better for his having worked there.

I had hoped to make it to his funeral tomorrow but that just didn't work out.

May he rest in peace.

Thanks for reading, keep the hope and keep writing.