Private: R.I.P.

Last night I learned that Ginny Wray, a writer whose work some of you may have admired online, has died of cancer.

I never met Wray. But the news makes me very sad all the same.

I’d feared she was sick after I read a recent story that began like this:

There’s an odd smell of something burning when the red light goes on. I’m not afraid of that thin filament of light aimed at my temples, although the radiology attendants move quickly out of the room and hide behind a lead-clad door when they turn it on. The red light will stop the growing tumors in what little good brain I have left. Then I can write with a pen again like a grown-up instead of a second grader, and soon I’ll get to try on wigs and scarves and turn into a glamorous blonde or redhead in the private rooms of Harry’s House of Hair on North Avenue in New Rochelle.

My favorite story of hers is The Kool King.

And my favorite poem, Word Play, opens with these lines:

My husband needs to talk to me when we make love.
We are lying together, leg to leg.
He asks, What can I say to drive you crazy?
I’m crazy enough as it is, I say.
No, no, he replies. There must be something I can say to drive you wild with love.
Say the words.
Just say them!

Wray was an editor at Fictionline.

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