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Posted by Robert Jordan on September 25th, 2006 in the Robert Jordan's Blog category
Hi, guys. I was going to put up a regular post here today, but that is going to have to wait a few days. You see, Mike Ford died last night. To you, he was John M. Ford, two-time winner of the World Fantasy Award, including for Winter Solstice Camelot Station, the only poem ever to win the short fiction award. Or maybe you’re a Star Trek Fan and remember his Star Trek novels, such as How Much for Just the Planet? (the only flat-out comedy among all the Trek novels, I think) or The Final Reflection, the only (to that time, anyway) Trek novel done from a Klingon point of view. What he was, frankly, was one of the best poets working in the English language and THE best writer working in the United States bar none. That ain’t hyperbole, Jack, That was pure fact. And I only limit it to the States because I figure I’d better give the rest of the world the benefit of the doubt. They might have slipped in somebody as good. I don’t follow their stuff closely enough to be sure. Somebody as good, maybe. But nobody better.
More importantly to me, though, he was my brother. He shared not even so much blood with me as Wilson, but Mike was still my brother. I don’t say things like that lightly. Maybe not blood of my blood, but bone of my bone, and a son and brother of this house. For thirty years he came to Charleston to spend Christmas with Harriet and me, and sometimes Thanksgiving and maybe Easter. He was coming home for Christmas again. We’d made plans.
Christ, I miss him.
Sorry, Mike. I know you’d have preferred some clever repartee and a quip or three, but my quipper seems to be busted.