Good-bye to a storyteller
image: Antonio Benedetti for Pixabay
An author died last month.
Well, probably quite a few: the world seems chock-a-block with authors these days. But I’m just focused on the one: Phil Rickman. He wrote 27 novels, every single one of them well worth reading.
He was, as you’re probably starting to tell, my favorite author.
Best known for a crime fiction series with supernatural elements set in the Welsh borders, he wrote what I think of as multidimensional stories—stories you can read and enjoy on a superficial level, but which can also draw you in deeper to consider your own beliefs and values. They are spooky, moody, and marvelous. Various characters show up in places you wouldn’t expect, and when you happen upon one of them—in a completely different book from the one where you met them—they feel like people you know. They will be missed almost as much as will their creator.
And there’s more…
I love that it in the midst of writing complex stories that weave subplots and mysterious happenings together, he freely confessed that he couldn’t keep any of them straight, and relied on the help of his editor and wife Carol to untangle it all.
I love that he presented a radio show that featured book news, author interviews, and advice for unpublished writers.
I love that in writing about the music scene he created a fictional musician who then went on to actually record music.
I love that almost four thousand people on Facebook read his books, talk about his books, and mourn his passing. I love that they all plan to re-read his book titled December on December 1, lighting a candle for Phil in their windows, drinking hard cider in a toast, and sending out kind thoughts.
I love that he championed the eccentricity of the area where he lived, the mysterious borderline between Wales and England. He taught me to in turn champion the eccentricity of my home, Provincetown, in my mysteries.
He was absolutely available to readers, to people in general. Some 20 years ago I wrote a nonfiction book called Open Your Heart with Reading, and Phil agreed to be interviewed for it. He didn’t know anything about me. He just said yes.
I found him completely by chance—I was in a bookshop one day and was looking for a recommended book by Ian Rankin. I accidentally pulled down Phil Rickman instead—and never looked for Rankin again. I read everything Phil had written to that point and eagerly awaited his next book, having it on preorder the moment it was announced.
I don’t know what it’s going to be like to not be able to do that anymore.
So, yeah: last month, an author died. On December 1, along with others all over the world, I’ll be re-reading the book, I will light the candle, I will drink the toast. I will probably cry.
That, alone, is not a bad legacy.
