Robert Jordan has died.

Author of the best-selling Wheel of Time series, Jordan spoke to million with a voice that was complex and beautiful, enthralling them in a world infinitely deeper than most had ever encountered before. . . so richly imagined that it breathed with life within the pages, so meticulously crafted that it withstood the test of time for 17 years as readers waited with bated breath for its conclusion.

And now, that conclusion, closure cannot come. Claimed far too early by the throes of cancer, Jordan is gone, and with him, a mind that touched hearts the world over. Gone are those final pages, those final moments. . . yet, also, gone are the countless prequels and side stories he knew intimately. Gone is the new series planned for later in his life. Gone is a mind taken hold of by genius, held in an unbreakable bond till its very last hour. Gone is a master storyteller who would bring his family together at dinner and transport them to alien worlds with his words, holding them enraptured for hours after the food had gone cold.

He was a true bard, a hero of the written word, and a friend to the industry that I place my fortunes with. He was also a family man, a friend to many, and a human. A man who touched lives, not just through writing, but through living. He was a man bouyed up by the support of teeming millions, praying for his health and safety. Yet, in the end, he was but a man, and in the end, all men must die.

What excuse, then, have I for delaying the inevitable bloodletting of words onto paper? That I can do it tomorrow. . . tomorrow does not come for thousands everyday, yet I presume to claim it as my workshop? No, there can be no more excusing, no more delays. Robert Jordan burned brightly for two decades, pouring out his heart into the Wheel of Time and the works of Conan. And then, one day, he blazed out entirely, consumed whole by flame. Who among us could ask for more than to do the same? I know my mind, and I know that it well will not run dry till my heart stops its beating. I cannot allow that source to go untapped.

So I feel compelled to do more. . . For Robert Jordan. . . for Frank Herbert. . . for Kurt Cobain. . . for . . . for all those who passed on from this life, still scarlet with the fever of creativity. The manner of their passing is almost inconsequential in light of the manner of their living. Their individual merits and shortcomings pale before the volume of their work, their contribution. What does wealth or power matter in death? No, only impact, change, and their ilk shall remain when you are released from this mortal coil. These men. . . nay, these giants. . . have achieved immortality with their works, a kind of second life on par with history's greatest figures. . . perhaps they did not walk on water or conquer a thousand nations, but they nonetheless grasped the world in their hands and wrought change upon it, afflicting the hearts of men with their creation.

Beyond them, for all those out there who may yet be touched, may yet be afflicted with my particular disease. And question it not, dear readers. . . what grows in my mind is nothing less than that. . . it holds me in a fever that sends my mind spinning away from the here and now, into the psychadelic realms of dream and chance. It saps me of every other strength and compels me to act, to force it from my body with the only medicine it obeys: a pen's ink. With every passing moment, it absorbs my life's truest sustenance: experience. . . it consumes this, and uses it to breed. . . new creativity springs forth from old memories, growing and swelling within me, damning every experience to be relived by a thousand apparitions in my mind until I find the one who it suits.

Today, Robert Jordan died. Long live Robert Jordan.