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Vale Jimmy
Jan. 5th, 2012 11:34 amIn a couple of years, many more of you reading this would have known Jimmy Goodrum. He was just approaching that point in his writing career where stories are published and novels are noticed and where one moves from being very private to being somewhat public.
He was working hard (very hard) at the invisible paddling we all have to do to make writing happen and stories grow. He was almost ready to show us his novel. His words and thoughts reflected his work. I noticed the changes in crit groups. He was thinking about writing in a different way, and his comments on books were more analytical and profound.
Jimmy was a very good critic. It was bugging me that his criticisms were made verbally, to friends. I suggested to him at the CSFG end of year party that he should think about moving into doing some written criticism. I loved his approach to texts. He saw nuances and subtleties. He enjoyed fine prose and understood rhythm.
He was already a writer. He was published, but not yet known.
It's always a tragedy when someone dies young. It's worse for their friends when the death is unexpected, and life is left so very incomplete. Jimmy drowned on Christmas Eve. His funeral is this afternoon. None of the breakthroughs we were expecting for him will happen.
Jimmy didn't waste his short time. He had a gift for living. Also for clothes. He certainly didn't see the world through rose-coloured glasses - he was critical, but positive.
There's so much more I want to say about him, but I can't. All the small idiocies of this week come back to the fact that he's no longer with us. I want to tell you more about him - his many kindnesses, his gorgeous wife, the books we exchanged ("We need to ransom each others' books," was our last conversation. "It's a good excuse to talk about them.") He was a huge fan of Paul McAuley and was desperately jealous that I met McAuley, last July.
Jimmy was one of those people whose presence made a room a better place to be in. I don't want to go to his funeral.
He was working hard (very hard) at the invisible paddling we all have to do to make writing happen and stories grow. He was almost ready to show us his novel. His words and thoughts reflected his work. I noticed the changes in crit groups. He was thinking about writing in a different way, and his comments on books were more analytical and profound.
Jimmy was a very good critic. It was bugging me that his criticisms were made verbally, to friends. I suggested to him at the CSFG end of year party that he should think about moving into doing some written criticism. I loved his approach to texts. He saw nuances and subtleties. He enjoyed fine prose and understood rhythm.
He was already a writer. He was published, but not yet known.
It's always a tragedy when someone dies young. It's worse for their friends when the death is unexpected, and life is left so very incomplete. Jimmy drowned on Christmas Eve. His funeral is this afternoon. None of the breakthroughs we were expecting for him will happen.
Jimmy didn't waste his short time. He had a gift for living. Also for clothes. He certainly didn't see the world through rose-coloured glasses - he was critical, but positive.
There's so much more I want to say about him, but I can't. All the small idiocies of this week come back to the fact that he's no longer with us. I want to tell you more about him - his many kindnesses, his gorgeous wife, the books we exchanged ("We need to ransom each others' books," was our last conversation. "It's a good excuse to talk about them.") He was a huge fan of Paul McAuley and was desperately jealous that I met McAuley, last July.
Jimmy was one of those people whose presence made a room a better place to be in. I don't want to go to his funeral.