Today marks the end of an era: author Anne McCaffrey passed away at the age of 85, from a stroke at her home in Ireland.
I remember the first time I saw an Anne McCaffrey book: I was in a used bookstore, one that I frequently haunted in hopes of discovering some dusty paperback treasure. The books were always shelved stacked, spine-out, so you could scan whole stacks in a hurry. I was about 11 years old.
I was getting bored, as I already had a small book pile tucked under my arm, so I ran my finger down the shelf for “M-Mc.” The word “Dragon” caught my eye. I pulled it out; it was Dragonflight by Anne McCaffrey. I had never heard of her, but I definitely liked dragons and I liked that there was a girl riding on the back of the dragon and that she seemed to have most of her clothes on. Even at the age of 11, I was skeptical about the fantasy novels that featured scantily-clad barbarian ladies on the cover.
I had read The Hobbit a few years before and had shuddered at visions of Smaug curled up, one eye half-open, gleaming with his gold. Who wasn’t fascinated with dragons? Who didn’t want to fly?
When I was older, I learned to appreciate her accomplishments. The White Dragon was the first science fiction novel written by a woman to make the New York Times Bestseller List. Her work often had strong female protagonists, not to mention queen dragons. She was the first woman to win a Hugo Award for fiction and the first to win a Nebula Award. She paved the way for countless female genre writers thereafter.
Anne brought us a whole world, blended science fiction and fantasy with carefree elan. Pern takes its place alongside hallowed fantasy lands: Middle Earth, Narnia, Oz, Earthsea, Discworld. Her writing allowed us to feel the wind blasting our hair back as the dragon launched into the air, to hear the flap of mighty wings.
She allowed us to fly. So ride the dragon’s wings to your well-deserved rest, Anne. Pern awaits.