Most of my favorite authors are dead. It’s depressing to think that I can’t look forward to new stories from them. No matter how long I wait, there will never be another Peter Wimsey mystery or Lewis novel, and Lay of Leithian will never ever be finished. The nice bit is that when I finished reading Strong Poison, there were ten more mysteries ready for me to immediately devour (and yes, I just split an infinitive). When I finished The Lord of the Rings, every single one of the Histories of Middle-Earth were waiting for me.
Then there are the authors that still on this side of the great divide. At a friend’s recommendation, I picked up The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss and absolutely fell in love with it. And today I finished the second book in the series, and then came to terrible realization that the story isn’t over but there isn’t any more. Not yet, with the third book still being written. And Rothfuss hasn’t even written any other books yet, so I’m stymied. Of course, the good news is that Rothfuss is alive so I can look forward to further works of brilliance. All I have to do is. . .wait. And maybe reread The Hobbit.
Namarie from the Tale-Weaver.