First of all, apologies for no post yesterday; (don’t tell anybody but) I overindulged a bit the evening before at a get-together at Landlady’s house, and woke feeling a bit, er, wretched. Just wasn’t feeling the urge to tickle the ivories. But I’m better today.
But I rose this morning to the news that SF writer Jerry Pournelle has died rather suddenly in his mid-eighties. Pournelle, I confess, wasn’t my favorite fiction writer, I mostly knew his fiction from the Niven/Pournelle potboilers from the 70’s and 80’s, but he was around for so very long. And he maintained a blog that was always good reading. And it’s from that blog I derive probably the most poignant thing that will happen today – here’s the very last thing Jerry Pournelle, the long-time veteran writer, ever wrote…
More later I’m experiencing a wave of nausea.
Bye for now.
He thought he had come back from a Con with the flu. Died in his sleep the next day.
Honestly, that’s kind of a cool way for a writer to go.