Today I learned that mystery author Robert Parker died. He was relatively young–ahh, the ages that come to seem young as we or our parents approach them–which makes this especially sad. All the great books that would’ve come to be. In fact, he was at his desk when he died, in the act of creation.

It’s been a tough year for losing writers. Donald E. Westlake. Michael Crichton. For a while there it seemed we heard of the loss of another great every month or so.

I have this image of these venerable not-old writers sitting around somewhere, fingers clacking over silvery keys, goblets of nectar there for the taking when the day’s words are in.

Doing what they still love and will always need to do. Producing stories.

If only we could read them.