I am not sure why things fade
from memory, while others live from moment-to-moment, still alive within your
mind. Six years ago I lost a very dear
friend. We were so close, it's hard to
think we never actually met. Dawn
Thompson breezed into my life, the belle of the ball - or so everyone
thought. Despite losing her six years
ago, she lingers, still very much alive in my thoughts.
People were jealous of
her. It seemed she was winning every
romance writers contest going. The world
was her pearl. In the short time we had
been friends, she sold her first book to Dorchester. Again more jealousy. She was smart, witty, compassionate, and a
very astute judge of character. I think
we all pictured her as being mid-thirties, English, and had the world in the palm
of her hand. Dawn worked very hard to
project that image, because she feared she'd never sell if people knew she was
in her late sixties, confined to a wheelchair due to a tragic car accident. People judge so quickly on first impressions.
She recalled an incident where she went
to the RWA meeting of her chapter, and one of the bigger name agents came up to
her and spoke about her writings, and possible representation. Then he came out with, "Are you going to
be in that thing forever?" Dawn
laughed about it in the retelling. But
she was hurt, you could hear it in her voice.
What can you say to an arse like that?
It was only during a silly
fracas - Dawn and another striving writer getting into one of those silly
internet group fights - that did I learn the real truth. Dawn's life, her talent as a painter, were
destroyed by a horrible accident. She
barely had use of her thumbs and two fingers, and she spent nearly 13 to 17
hours a day in a wheelchair. Dawn now
painted with words. It was her escape
from the crippling pain that tormented her every hour. That was the real beginning of our
friendship. We were on Messenger
constantly; I left it running and kept my phone by me, as Dawn was alone at
night. Every night she told me when she
was going to bed, wished me a "Goodnight, my dear." Every morning I got a good morning and a
laugh. We talked on the phone often, and
layer by layer I learned so much about this funny, special lady that life
seemed to deal one blow after another.
But I think I learned the
most about her through her books. There
is so much of Dawn in her novels. I have
discussed this with Candy - was she aware of how much of her was the fabric of
her tales. We both agree Dawn was
totally unaware of these elements. I
recall our editor, Hilary Sares saying she cried when she read the scene of the
trees that were alive in Lord of the Deep.
A tree that ached to be a part of life, but with limbs rooted to the
ground. Or the angel in Lord of the Dark
-- a poor thing couldn't sleep because his wings wouldn't retract. Again, only to someone who knew Dawn closely
would that make sense. Dawn had the
hardest time getting into bed every night, hard time sleeping because of the
legs that no longer worked, the pain that dogged her every moment.
Never have I known someone so
valiant in the face of adversity, never have I heard someone laugh at all that
life flung at her.
I miss you, Dawn Thompson,
but you “gave” me your sister. Your last
words to me was "Do not forget me."
How could I ever forget such a bright light in this sad sorry world?
