I don’t rank my favorite writers. It’s like ranking flavors. Is chocolate really better than a fresh strawberry? Can you compare a really good wine to a great cup of coffee and say it’s “higher” on your list. They are unrankable, each unique and individual, and authors are even more so because they shift and change through their careers. The first and last books from a long writing career may only have the author’s name in common, but one cannot invalidate or validate their career, they are a part of that author’s flavor. For these reasons I don’t rank my favorites. But still, I have favorites.

Vonnegut is a favorite. He makes me want to write, and write well. He makes me want to write better. He makes me want to write something that matters and that entertains. He makes me think, and makes me want to keep thinking about the hard things that we go through. He makes me question what an author is and what an author can do. He makes jokes when in pain and evokes the cherished hurt of every emotion that makes life worth paying attention to. He was a writer that makes me want to do so much with my writing, to join in his conversation, to recognize what I think and feel and make them something that goes beyond words and into a deeper place, a place where language pushes against experience and for just a moment, almost actually IS the thing it’s trying to describe. He was important.

I passed him on the street, twice. Once in New York. Once in Boston. I was to scared to say anything.

The world is not a better place without him.

I will miss him. I will reread his books, and will miss him more.