Current mood:	sad
Current music:	Something dirge-like

Octavia Butler's Passing
I was at the Potlatch Banquet when I heard about Octavia Butler's passing. Debbie Notkin had come up and told Nisi Shawl so that she could steel herself for it, before they announced it to everyone. She told me. I'm glad she did, because it gave me time to wrap my mind around the concept. When the general announcement was made, there was the most incredible spontaneous shocked and grieved silence. I remember thinking, "This is what a moment of silence is supposed to feel like."

I went to the wake at the Science Fiction Museum last night. It was beautifully done. Leslie Howle put together a wonderful PowerPoint slideshow of pictures of Octavia, and her books. There were pictures when she was young, and pictures of her winning awards and with her Clarion West classes and students. But the best ones were out in wild places. There was a wonderful open smile on Octavia's face. It was clear that she was at her happiest and most open out in nature. There were wonderful moments of synchronicity, when someone would be saying something about Octavia, and a picture would come up that perfectly matched whatever people were saying about her.

They played an interview with Octavia Butler. Watching it, I couldn't believe she was really dead. Her presence was there, in the room, larger than life as she always was. She was like that. She will always be like that.

Many moving and funny stories were told. My favorite was the woman who had flown out here from Washington, D.C. She had found a number for Octavia on the web, and called it, expecting to contact an editor or publicist. The person who answered demanded to know how she got the number, and didn't believe she'd gotten it off the web. The woman who called said that she was a fan who wanted an address so that she could write Octavia Butler. There was much back and forth, and finally Octavia (she'd reached Octavia's home phone number) told the woman who called that she was Octavia Butler. "No, that's not possible. The world isn't that kind," Octavia's caller replied. There then followed a half-hour argument while Octavia tried to prove that she really WAS Octavia Butler. Anyway, they talked for five hours, and became good friends.


Here's what I wrote up and read at the wake:

I never took a class from Octavia Butler, but she was one of the most important writing teachers I ever had.

She taught me the importance of turning over rocks in the human soul and writing about the squishy, crawly, and scary things underneath. She taught me to have the courage to put the characters in my books through hell, even if, and sometimes because I loved them. Her months-long struggle to find a way to properly begin The Parable of the Sower taught me the importance of taking the time it requires to tell a story correctly, even if a deadline is breathing down your neck. In short she taught me a lot about the courage it takes to tell the truth in a story, even if that truth is a difficult or unpleasant one.

Octavia was much more than a black writer, writing to a black audience, or even a science fiction writer writing to an audience of science fiction fans. Her immense compassion makes her books universal, and universally important. Through her books, she took me by the hand and led me through the harrowing experience of racism, in a way no one else could.

Writing is the only way we can experience being someone else. And Octavia was a master at helping us become the other.


After the wake, I talked to one of Octavia's neighbors. She told me two things that eased my aching heart. First, that Octavia Butler was not alone when she died. Second, her passing was peaceful and without pain. Small comfort, but one gathers what shreds one can out of a tragedy like this. Everytime we talked (sadly, it was not often) I learned something important. I will miss her very much.