Easily one of my favorite writers died today. I read the three books he published (a small number compared to some, but keep in mind he started writing at 66 years old.).

Frank McCourt died today, Sunday July 19th. I knew he was sick the last couple days and was trying to prepare myself for the news but had hoped in vain that somehow he'd pull through for a full more days....a few more weeks.

I've cried a few times over it...more then anyone else who has ever died that I have known (I never met him, but feel I knew him). My life is a bit untouched by death. Most of my grandparents died before I got to meet them and when my one grandfather who I met died, I felt I hardly knew him.

But I knew Frank McCourt...or at least the part of him he allowed his readers to know. From his youth in Limerick, Ireland to his adult life in New York as both a worker and then on becoming a teacher. I followed his story and wanted to know more.

I had hoped to meet him...maybe get my three books signed...maybe ask for advice (about writing, living and laughing...I felt he could guide me in all three).

I am grieving having never met him and not being able to tell him how much I enjoyed his words.

But I am consoled in a small way....and likely an insignificant way to everyone else. Before he died, he said, "I don't want funeral services or memorials. Let them scatter my ashes over the Shannon and pollute the river."

I know he wasn't talking to me or about me but instead the famous river in Ireland that he even cursed in his books so often. But somehow...him saying my name gives me solace and I feel graced to know he even uttered my name, whether he knew it or not.

And perhaps one day I will visit Ireland, go to Limerick and view the river he loved to hate.

Shannon

"but break, my heart, for i must hold my tongue"

Oh Hamlet...I do not like you very much (sorry, you're just a little too emo for my tastes) but I do like this line.

I am not known for holding my tongue. I am undiplomatic. I say what I'm thinking, wear my heart on my sleeve, I'm an open book and all those other cliches.

When I hurt, it shows. One tear and my whole face is red. There is a crease in my brow when concerned. And a tone in my voice when upset.

Not to say I can't hide it (most cases I could), but rather I choose not too (though, some can read me easily, mostly my sister).

I feel akin to Sense and Sensibility's Marianne despite how much she annoyed me when reading the book (at least I'm played by Kate Winslet in the movie). When happy, I soar. I relish and appreciate every details of a happy moment. I talk about how nice the whether is, how great a day was, how bright the colours are. But...when presented with disappointments, I am give in to woe easily. I am just as vocal when happy as when sad. I do not quietly sit by and hold my tongue.

That is one of the reasons I included the word "Abrasive" in the title of my blog. I know this characteristic is not a favorable one, but I'd like to think I make up for it with other more positive qualities.

Ah well, I envy those of you who can remain tactful and feels your feelings discreetly. I do not think any less of your emotions for you showing them less and only wonder how you do it.

Are you you dramatic or silent? Do you wish you were otherwise? What are the consequences of being such?