Octavia Butler describes herself as “a forty-seven-year-old writer who
can remember being a ten-year-old writer and who expects someday to
be an eighty-year-old writer… a hermit, a pessimist if I’m not
careful, a feminist, a Black, a former Baptist, an oil-and-water
combination of ambition, laziness, insecurity, certainty, and drive”.
She started writing science fiction at 12 because she thought men were
doing a terrible job, and she could do better. In her work, it’s
apparent she believed humanity was inherently flawed and doomed to
destroy itself. I get sad about her early death and miss her a lot.