No more shall I gaze upon the glossy covers in the book store and wonder just how long it'll be until the next installment of The Vampire Chronicles graces the metal shelves. It's not going to happen.
In an article in today's newspaper, I learned that my lovely goddess has ceased to write the beloved series. Ending it with crashing finality in Blood Canticle. (Which I have yet to finish.)
That with the death of her husband, Stan Rice, she felt that there was no place for Lestat and the others. No matter how much it pained her to let them go.
For so long I've looked to her writing for guidance. As insane that sounds. Guidance from vampires. Those books helped me through some of the toughest periods of my life. Lestat's dry, fatalistic humour. Marius' socio-apathy. Armand's wild seductions.
Now...it's over.
A part of me feels like it's drawing it's last dying breath. Whispering elegies to the deaf.
My writing style took after her's. Mimicking the greatest of artists. It seems that I must broaden my horizons now. Since I have lost my base, lost my threshold into the literary world.
Damn.