Yesterday I learned that a young "up and coming" writer I'd never heard of died in a plane crash several months ago. I read one of her short stories just to see why she was regarded as up and coming. It was mercifully short, but a struggle to read anyway. I didn't get what all the fuss was about. I did, however, feel somewhat jealous of her recognition for a story that I thought read like a college experiment, when I know I have much better stuff out there. And I felt a strange evil satisfaction that she was dead.