The Sanskrit term “guru” translates to “teacher,” or “master.”
Charles Dickens, Christopher Hitchens, Agatha Christie and Carrie Fisher are my literary gurus. (Motley bunch-o-Brits, I know. And Carrie Fisher.)
I Frankensteined my narrative voice from the four of theirs. (Not that I’m equating me with them. Or them with each other.)
I know I write on the shoulders of giants (and Carrie Fisher). I’m cool with that.
Because, frankly, I rather like the way I paint with language. (Can’t draw worth a damn.)
To be a great writer, one must be a great reader. I take great pride in being, if nothing else, a great reader. (I vowed not to write about how much I suck this week.)
How I wish Hitch were with us today. On this particular Friday. At home, in DC. Glass of pinot beside his laptop. Outrage in his soul.
But he’s with Charles and Dame Agatha now. Which must be both awesome and terrible for him, because he loved the former and loathed the latter…Oh, wait. He’s just gone. Of course. How silly of me.
Fortunately, I still have one living guru. And I pine to meet her some day. I feel as though I will. It is my destiny. (Couldn’t resist. Sorry. She’d hate that line.)
And that’s all she wrote.