Yesterday I learned that legendary novelist Ursula K. Le Guin had died. I felt as though we had been robbed. Idolatry was considered a sin in my religious upbringing, and warnings about hero-worship were often justified when heroes failed, disappointing our expectations. In the case of Le Guin­—a woman who rallied for the redefinition of structures, ‘boxes’ and boundaries for what was considered literary success and singular greatness—my level of worship seems justified. She never ended up disappointing me.

I remember submitting my first manuscript—60,000 words in total!—to a literary competition in primary school. I can’t recall the plot, but I know it was about dragons and involved a fascist dictator as the main antagonist. I did not win a prize. I received a consolatory letter with judges’ comments, among them a criticism that some of the entries were ‘derivative’. I didn’t understand what that meant so I looked it up. Derivative is perhaps the unkindest thing you can say to me nowadays. It still stings. The advice in that letter was to read widely and regularly.