In Laymon's Terms

Gina Osnovich

DON’T KNOW DICK, but his legend has left me with an untainted knowledge of who he was.

I don’t know Dick, but the friends he made, the family that exerts endless positive energy, helps me discover more.

I don’t know Dick, but if he was anything like the boy who just hit puberty that wrote his books, I would have reveled in knowing him.

Dick died a few weeks after I joined the HWA. I didn’t know Dick, but I cried. Perhaps no one can express their thoughts of loss and hurt better than a horror writer, and when Dick died, I knew him. I knew everything about him from others, and yet I hadn’t even scratched the surface.

I don’t know Dick, but I remember meeting Kelly. I was terrified, not only because she was everything I’d ever known about Dick, and as close as I would ever get to him, but because she was so much younger than I expected, and I didn’t feel it was my place to say “I’m sorry about your father.”

We have talked several times and each time I am honored. She called me on September 11^th to check if I got home ok. She didn’t know if I worked in Manhattan, but she called across the country anyway.

I don’t know Dick, but if she’s anything like him, I can understand the love his friends had felt.

I don’t know Dick, but I have seen pictures of him on everyone’s website, and heard the weird, fun-filled stories.

I don’t know Dick, but everyone has a story, and I learn a little more each time. I still feel intrusive when someone shares a memory. It’s not mine to listen to. I am not worthy. “I don’t know Dick,” I have to say when they ask for mine.

I don’t know Dick, but I wish I had that story to share. I wish I’d been part of that. I wish I had that experience. I wish I had known Dick.