Some days I hate the universe.

Sometimes, when you're just noodling along, feeling sorry for yourself, the universe whaps you one upside the head and says 'get over yourself, bitch.'

That's happened to me tonight. I saw this:

"Charles L. Grant, the acclaimed horror author, has been diagnosed with COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease). As a result, and probably for the rest of his life, he will rely on bottled oxygen to live."

Damn. And... damn.

I've known Charlie and his wife Kathryn for fifteen years, from when he was publishing with Berkley, and I was a wide-eyed and totally ignorant assistant. Just listening to him talk (okay, rant) is a Master Class in Publishing from the author's point of view, and there are hundreds of small (and large) mistakes I might have made if it weren't for him. We're semi-neighbors, living in the same Wilds of North Jersey, and it's always a joy and a delight to see then at our Fourth of July parties or the occasional convention. Charlie's the last of the great curmudgeons, a delight and a pleasure when he chooses to be, and he so doesn't deserve the shit that life has handed him.

Needless to say, the life of two full time writers does not include things like, oh, reasonable health care. So this newest blow is a potentially crippling one.

According to Nick Mamatas, aka nihilistic_kid , a "Fresh Air" fund has been set up to accept donations which will be used to pay the staggering expenses of oxygen and other durable medical equipment required to keep Charlie with us.

There are two ways to contribute. Mail a check in any amount, made out to Kathryn Ptacek, to:

Fresh Air Fund
c/o Kathryn Ptacek
P. O. Box 97
Newton, NJ 07860-0097

or Paypal: katptacek@yahoo.com


If you can, please do. He's given us so much wonderful writing over the years; it's time to pay back for once, rather than paying forward.