I was very sad to hear about the recent death of Ray Bradbury. He was such an amazing source of inspiration to writers everywhere. I met Mr. Bradbury several times over the years, starting when I attended a writers' conference probably over 35 years ago. Here is what I wrote after meeting him:
"I once heard Ray Bradbury speak to a group of writers. Fortunately, I was one of them. His subjects were love and writing. Actually, writing was only a symptom, a by-product, of love.
He spoke of passion. Not in a dry, academic sense as a lecturer speaking to his students. No, his body jumped with excitement and each sentence he spoke possessed the kernel of a great idea.
He told us that we don't create characters and write about their exploits. Characters, he said, are born, sometimes without any help from the author. For instance, he claimed Herman Melville didn't create Captain Ahab. On the contrary, Captain Ahab appeared before Melville and told him about his life's story. It must be written, Captain Ahab had demanded, with as much force as he had pursued his great white whale. And it was done!
I was stunned. How often had I thought up the skeleton of a character, pondering on what qualities to give him or her? Should my character be selfish or kind? Silly or intellectual? Like a God, I created them, and many times they existed as the reflection of my image.
But how many characters, alive with their own personalities, had I ignored because I wanted to be the creator? I wanted to mold my clay figures, shaping them to my delight. I had refused to accept their pleas to tell their story. I then realized how many stories I had not written because I had insisted on being the storyteller.
Writing was important to me. I knew that if I too could feel this passion, this desire to see the possibilities in life, like the colors of a rainbow, I would have a story to tell. But I was not alone. Ray Bradbury had managed to touch all of us and we were captured in his spell.
He also talked about dinosaurs. He told us a story about one night when he and his wife were walking on the shore near the Long Beach pier. He gazed at the long deceased carnival rides and exclaimed, "Why, what is that dead dinosaur doing on the beach?" He said the dinosaur had heard a foghorn, and believing it to be another dinosaur in a world where dinosaurs had disappeared, the dinosaur swam toward the shore, hoping to find a mate. When this magnificent animal discovered his error, he died of a lonely and broken heart.
I was amazed that anyone could see a dinosaur in an old wooden amusement park. What a passionate man he must be to create such a story! Now there, I thought to myself, was a man I could love."
I will miss you, Mr. Bradbury!