Sheri S. Tepper, "a prolific author of SF, best known for her feminist and ecological themes, with major titles including The Gate to Women's Country (1988) and Grass (1989)," died October 22, Locus reported. She was 87. "Many of her novels were shortlisted for major awards, including the Clarke, the Tiptree, the Hugo, and the Campbell Memorial Award," Locus wrote. She received a World Fantasy life achievement award in 2015.
In a tribute, author John Scalzi wrote on his blog: "Aside from her considerable talents as an author, Tepper stands as a reminder that it's never too late to write. Tepper didn't publish her first novel until 1983, when she was in her 54th year of life; she wrote something like 40 total, the most recent published in 2014. It's never too late to write; it's never too late to write a classic novel; it's never too late to be a great writer, whether or not the genre has entirely caught up with you yet. Farewell, Ms. Tepper. Your voice will be missed. I'll keep reading what you have left us."
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Lucia Perillo, an award-winning author and Pulitzer Prize finalist, died October 16. She was 58. Copper Canyon Press wrote: "We are deeply saddened to share the news that poet and essayist Lucia Perillo has passed away.... Lucia was the author of seven books of poetry, a MacArthur Genius Fellow [in 2000], and a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. She was a dear friend to us at Copper Canyon Press, and will be greatly missed."
Perillo's books include Time Will Clean the Carcass Bones: Selected and New Poems; Inseminating the Elephant; I've Heard the Vultures Singing: Field Notes on Poetry, Illness and Nature; Happiness Is a Chemical in the Brain: Stories; On the Spectrum of Possible Deaths; and Body Mutinies.
From "To the Field of Scotch Broom that Will Be Buried by the New Wing of the Mall":
Half costume jewel, half parasite, you stood
swaying to the music of cash registers in the distance
while a helicopter chewed the linings
of the clouds above the clear-cuts....
Mine went a little haywire
at the crest of the road, on whose other side
you lay in blossom.
As if your purpose were to defibrillate me
with a thousand electrodes,
one volt each.