A closing note about Charles Sheffield: It took me two days to work my way through his biography section. The last proper installment, written May 29, 1999, ends with these poignant and chilling words:
My children seem to be happy and healthy. I seem to be solvent. My flower garden is growing well. I’m not running away from anything, not trying to forget anything, not deep in some major emotional fight. I feel no overwhelming urge to write, no lust for awards, no yearning for greater recognition. Approaching the end of the millennium, life is very good.
That’s really worrying. As a friend of mine said, asked why he was frowning, “Too much happiness, I guess.”
Don’t worry. Nothing lasts. Something horrible will come along. Something rotten will happen to me. And then I will write about it.
Until then, though, I plan to stop this biography. If you want it to continue, make unpleasant things happen.
There’s another entry from November 15, 2001, saying that he’s still more or less fine. It includes a new photo, of Sheffield in an impressive costume.
The section after that, from November 2, 2002, qoutes the Washington Post and announces:
Charles Sheffield, 67, a physicist and science fiction writer who was a recipient of the prestigious Nebula and Hugo awards for his 1993 novelette “Georgia on My Mind,” died of brain cancer Nov. 2 at Casey House Hospice in Rockville.
May we live in boring times.