It's Not Like He Was Gonna Write Beethoven's Fifth or Anything

“No names have been changed to protect the innocent because God Almighty protects the innocent as a matter of heavenly routine.”
aaaaaaaaaaaaa--Kurt Vonnegut

At vonnegut.com there’s a picture of an empty, open cage. Below that picture: the words, Kurt Vonnegut Jr 1922-2007.

That’s it. That’s the ballgame. Thanks for coming out boys and girls. The man is dead. So it goes, ting-a-ling and all that. There’s not much more to say, but I’m saying something anyway. I feel it’s my place.

I have read every novel and short story ever written by Kurt Vonnegut. If someone put a gun to my head and made me pick a favorite author, it would be Vonnegut. I love his books so much that I own absolutely none of them. The thing is, every time I read a Vonnegut book, I enjoyed it so much that I just had to give it to someone else so they could experience reading that mad man.

One of my greatest joys as a writer is receiving emails and comments from people who think of me, a guy they’ve never met, when something happens in their world that relates to my life as I write about it. In a way, readers are getting to know me like I got to know Vonnegut. I can tell you stories from that man’s life as if he were a great uncle of mine. He meant that much to me.

As a writer, Vonnegut made me believe that it was possible—hell, possibly even easy—to write about difficult concepts in a simple way. In this way, he inspired my writing. Probably more than any other writer, he convinced me that there was a place for sloppy, sophomoric writing, just so long as the ideas behind the writing were neither sloppy nor sophomoric. I’m not pretending that I am even a fraction of the writer Vonnegut was, but I am stating that I would have been much worse at this had I never read Vonnegut.

One of my favorite bits by Vonnegut was in Deadeye Dick, where the author describes Hitler’s last words before he killed himself. According to Vonnegut, Hitler’s last words were, “It’s not my fault. I never asked to be born.”

I use that line every time someone gives me shit for being me. I think it’s a great fit.

And this week I decided to include that line in my column, the deadline for which is Monday night. I had no idea that Vonnegut had recently fallen, or that he was sick as a result. I had no idea that he would die. It was purely a coincidence. It wasn’t my fault. I never asked for Kurt to die.

A noted humanist, Vonnegut never expressed any belief in God. But I guess that’s okay because God probably believes in Vonnegut. And if you can’t have one, you should have the other.

Anyway, I’m sure Kurt’s up in heaven with Isaac Asimov (all the humanists just laughed heartily). And I’m sure that life will go on here on planet Earth. And I’m very sure that I will do my level best to keep churning stuff out with the hopes that I will one day write something that’s half as decent as Vonnegut’s worst book.

Until then, it’s just chop wood, carry water, keep your powder dry and always have a cliché handy.

Thanks for the memories, Kurt.

I’ll miss you.