John Updike

John Updike has died, of lung cancer.  You can read the New York Times obit here. 

I'm sad.  I didn't even know he was ill.  The obituary is one of those that has been on file for awhile and so doesn't talk a lot about the circumstances of his death.

Love him or hate him, he was a huge literary figure and he published over 50 books throughout his career.  The Times referred to him as "prolific, even compulsive." 

Not a bad epitaph, considering that so many of us struggle to even get words on the page.

(And, for those of you who thought I had gone to the same place as Updike, I assure you I'm still here.  I've got four, count 'em, four posts, written out to put up.  Circumstances in my life has been a bit, um, overwhelming shall we say.  My mother in a nursing home, my daughter deciding to get married in less than a month, a trip to Chicago for AWP to moderate a panel in a couple weeks and three ghostwriting projects.  Oh, and I just adopted my Mom's ancient, frail cat, who thinks the blind pug is a big scary beast out to eat her for breakfast when the truth is I'm not even sure he knows she exists.)