Listen here, Vince Flynn,
I’ve got a bone to pick with you, and you’re gonna listen to me, whether you’re actually dead or not.
It’s really not ok that you just died like that.
OK, so maybe it wasn’t really all that sudden, since you announced your ass cancer in February and all, but geez! You don’t think you coulda picked up the phone and called, huh? After all, we’re kind of neighbors. I mean, you live in Minnesota and I live in Minnesota.
I think fondly of the times when I worked at my bookstore and people were constantly coming in to look for your books. I began to wonder what all the fuss was about, and so I picked one up one day. And then it was all over.
I began to search high and low for your books in hardcover, for I knew instantly that they must be a permanent part of my ever-growing library. And the fact that I turned my well-read Auntie onto you is a fact I am quite proud of, even though she admitted that your writing style was not quite her cup of tea.
I shamedly confess that while I adore your writing (and your beautiful face that is now without life) while I own many but not all of your books, I have yet to read more than one. After all, I have many books to read, and I can’t just be reading spy novels all the time. Anyhoo, now I will have to put aside my Memoirs of Cleopatra and take up with Mitch Rapp in your honor.
I had hoped that we, as co-Minnesota writers, might have collaborated on a story that then became wildly successful, or at least collaborated at friends over a steamy….. cup of joe in downtown St. Paul after one of your book signings. Ah C’est la vie. Or c’est la morte, rather.
I am rather upset that I’ve picked up additional shifts at work this weekend, and so I shall miss your funeral, which I’m certain shall be a sight to behold. I would send flowers, but I am poor, and well, you are dead, so you wouldn’t probably appreciate them anyway.
I mourn your passing, because you are an author, and a good one, and one I’ve had numerous conversations about with my co-worker. If at any time you feel unrest and wish to converse with someone in the real world, you have my permission to sneak your wispy ghost self into my bedroom and have a chat. Although, I must point out my world is, at times, more of an illusion than real.
Love in the Afterlife,