Dear Sam,

Yesterday I read your column, Why parents should share a bed with their children. I read it, not so much because I was interested in the topic, but because I like reading your articles. Recently I posted about something you wrote on fiction in The Age. It was a short piece, like much of what you write, I found it but intensely interesting, and intelligent. Like all great writers, reading your work made me wonder about the man. I liked your face as it was pictured on your articles. You looked like an interesting, irreverent bloke who would be great company over dinner. But beside that, I really knew nothing about you. The last article was in fact the only personal glimpse into your private life, which has ended far too soon, and will be a terrible loss for your family, especially your young daughter.

All that is left for me now is to search and find your novels – I did not know you were a novelist! I am sad that I am finding out more about you because you died. It seems, somehow, inappropriate. And in a selfish, almost callous way, I am sad that after I have read the sum of what you wrote, there will be nothing new to look forward to. Bit like losing Stieg Larsson after only three books!

So rest in peace, Sam, if there is such a thing, or a place where you are (or are not) now.

Thank you for the moments of reading pleasure you have given me, and the many other readers who have enjoyed your work. Little consolation, really, but you have left your mark, your legacy – whatever you want to call it – and you will be in the minds of those who did not know you, as well as those who did.

Yours Sincerely,

Peregrine X