After a break of slightly more than four years, I’m once again going to be writing editorials for Hellnotes.

Although I once swore I’d never again take on that kind of obligation, things are a bit different this time, with a looser structure and a much more flexible deadline. In other words, I can write an editorial if and when I feel like it, as often or as little as I like; who can pass up an offer like that?

In all honesty, I’m looking forward to this project. My deep, dark secret is that I always enjoyed doing the Hellnotes editorials. The stress level and brain-drain were fairly severe, but the process was challenging, the work often pleasant and the feedback gratifying. When Dave and I first passed on the reins of the newsletter in 2002, it was an immense relief not to have that editorial shadow hanging over my head … but I kind of missed it, too.

It’s been exciting to see the success of Hellnotes in its latest version (using the popular if somewhat silly system of numbering everything in life as if it were software, I make this out to be Hellnotes 6.0 — maybe 7.0 if you count Dave’s original “Hellnotes” column in The Horror Show). It will be fun to be part of that madness once more.

My first column was posted yesterday. It doesn’t say much — it’s more of a mood-setter than anything — but if you’re interested, you can find it here.

It’s been a week since the death of Charles L. Grant, and I can’t shake the feeling — that hollow, floating feeling in the pit of my stomach. This is what it feels like when one of your heroes dies.

Over the years, I only had a few chances to work with Charlie. He was a supporter of my old magazine, Horrorstruck. He provided a pair of terrific tales for Post Mortem and Dead End. He offered gentle, thoughtful and constructive rejections every time I tried to sell him something. (He also was generous about suggesting alternative markets for a particular story, which shows just what kind of editor he was, although I probably didn’t appreciate it enough at the time. I didn’t want to see my work in this anthology or that magazine. I wanted to reach my own personal holy grail. I wanted to be good enough to have a story in Shadows, dammit.)

As you can see, Charlie and I weren’t exactly “colleagues.” More like ships that kept passing in the night, often within sighting distance, occasionally within hailing distance. But I still felt closer to him than almost anyone else in the field, simply because I idolized him so much.

When I attended my first World Fantasy Convention (WFC 5, Providence, 1979), I was only marginally familiar with Charlie’s work, but that all changed over the course of that magic weekend. After watching him on several panels, chatting briefly with him during the autograph party and again in the dealers’ room, buying everything of his I could lay my hands on and gobbling down part of a novel and several short stories … well, let’s just say that by the time I left the east coast and flew back to Michigan, I had a new role model. I spent the next several weeks immersed in the work of Charles L. Grant and never looked back.

It was a pivotal time in the life of a young writer who was just then taking the first tentative steps toward a career, and Charlie became a brilliant signpost on that winding, mysterious path.

He was the kind of writer I wanted to be — not insanely, stratospherically successful, but someone who earned a living with his craft, who seemed to find real joy in doing the work, who always took that work seriously, who understood the field and truly believed in it, who saw value in the genre and eloquently expressed his feelings about it, who charted his own course in defiance of trends, who switched back and forth from writer to editor with apparent ease, who was helpful and kind and generous, and who, along the way, earned the sincere respect of his peers. Wow, I thought. If I could do all of that, I would be a happy man indeed.

Did I achieve the goal? No. But as I’ve told a few other people this week, I only missed the mark because what I wanted to achieve was nearly impossible. Charlie had set a standard that was simply too high to reach.

I don’t know how much longer I’ll feel this sensation of loss, this little black hole in my spirit, this … this emptiness. A long time, I’m sure. Perhaps forever. That’s what happens when a piece of you suddenly goes away, when the signpost you relied on vanishes.

I’m grateful, of course, that I still have Charlie in my library, three or four long shelves worth of Charlie, dozens and dozens of books to touch, take down, reread, marvel over, and reread again. But right now, that seems like cold, thin comfort. It’s not enough, not nearly enough.

This is what it feels like when one of your heroes dies.

Dave will be participating in an online chat tonight. The time is 7:00 pm Pacific time (8:00 MST, 9:00 Central, 10:00 EST) at The Lost and The Damned Message Board.  If you aren’t watching Monday Night Football and you have a few free minutes, stop by and visit.