Author Graham Joyce passed away today after a battle with cancer. He was far too young at 59 to be taken from the world, he wasn't finished here, he had more to give.
I never met Graham, but I read many of his novels and short stories. He wrote dark fantasy, magic realism if you must, or adult fairy tales if you really want to split hairs. He wasn't flashy, never racing out the gate only to finish flat. Instead he was subtle, yet stunning, painting visuals that seeped in and took hold. Each time I read a piece by Graham, I feel as if he'd written the book just for me. Even flipping back to the dedication page in a pinch myself moment, just to make sure I wasn't dreaming. It just all made sense to me. His message wasn't poisoned with the fairy glamour he often wrote about, I saw it for what it was, a lesson in how to live and see the world. Thank you for that Mr. Joyce. You will be missed.
His voice is silent now, but it lives on in his touching work. His last blog entry 'A Perfect Day And The Shocking Clarity Of Cancer' was touching and full of clarity. Please read it.
My Dad passed away in December of 2011 of cancer at the age of 63. Cancer is terrible.