Ugh. Just. No.
This morning Victor woke me up and took me to coffee because he wanted to break the news to me that Alan Rickman had died. And then I cried so hard that he decided to go through the drive-through and the cashier at Starbucks looked at me like, “Should I call the police?” and Victor was like, “She’s just upset because you don’t offer snozzberry tea anymore” and then she got flustered and left. And I laughed. A little.
It feels incredibly stupid to cry over a man I never met. I cried a bit when Bowie died because he inspired me to be weird. I cried a bit when Philip Seymour-Hoffman died for the same reason. I cried when River Phoenix died because it’s when we became mortal. I cried with Eartha Kitt died because her music was the soundtrack to much of my life. I cried when Robin Williams died because I was proud that he’d lasted so long and brought joy out of sadness and insanity, but also because so many of us saw ourselves in him. But I’m crying over Alan Rickman for the same reason I cried when we lost Ray Bradbury. Because I never got to tell him how much his work meant to me. It was obvious if you read here. He’s mentioned in my books. He’s always on my list of “people I’d invite to my dream dinner party” and I once wrote an entire post about you could divide the world into people who utterly adore Alan Rickman and people who are total fucking liars.
But I never told him.
Not that it would matter. He didn’t know me and he already knew he was beloved, and me saying it would only be one more time he’d have to graciously say, “Thank you, dear,” but I’m sad that now I’ll never have that chance. And it makes me think of all the other people who touched me and changed me and who I never said “thank you” to. So I’m starting now. Thank you. To you. For being there. For inspiring me. For making it easier for me to be me. For forgiving me when I fuck up and helping me forgive myself. Thank you for sitting beside me when I panic in empty hotel rooms. Thank you for making me laugh so hard it makes me want to be funnier myself. Thank you for pushing me too hard and for having my back both when I failed and when I succeeded. Thank you for letters and comments and kind words and irreverence and honesty. Thank you for shaping me. This thank you is for my family, and friends, and readers, and idols, and all those out there who have no idea how much they changed my life….made my life. I will never be able to go back and thank those who are gone, but I suspect they would be proud to know they inspired me to tell those who are still here how much they’ve done and how incredibly important they are to me. I love you and I’m so grateful you are alive. Thank you for everything you have done, not just for me, but for the world. You don’t know the impact you have had. But at least I told you.
:sniff: Jesus. YES, PLEASE.
PS. Victor just pointed out that I’d included Rickman in my 2009 list of “men we think are incredibly sexy but that our husbands don’t understand”. Also included in that list were Bowie as the Goblin King and Philip Seymour Hoffman. I’m starting to suspect Victor is taking them all out, one by one. Lock your doors and look both ways when crossing the street, Neil Gaiman, Prince and Eddie Izzard. I can’t stand to lose any more of you.