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The High One turned to flame in his hands, and then into a memory
Patricia A. McKillip has died. I read her so early, I can't remember the first time. Her influence on my writing and on some of my thought is incalculable. We met twice at different conventions. I shared readings with her husband. She wrote the sea like I could breathe it. I was re-reading one of my favorites of her mid-career novels idly last week, hoping that whatever she wrote next would be something I liked. At the moment the stones are still falling out of the sky.
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I was expecting more. If anything had happened to her health in recent years, I hadn't heard about it. I figured there would be a new novel presently. Kingfisher (2016) had differed so strongly from her long run of secondary worlds, I was really curious what the next thing would be.
I'm glad for what she shared with us, though. Very glad.
It's not just that I would be different. The field would. She had just blurbed a novel by a friend of mine! Damn.
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Kingfisher felt like Persuasion - a turn towards something new, and now, like Persuasion, a movement achingly incomplete.
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It was like short stories she had written, but not novels. That in itself interested me, beyond the fact that it was immediately one of my favorites. I can't disagree with your analogy.