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through the various books, retaining the essence of the self-directed, courageous, intelligent girl, but learning from her experience, softening the jagged edges without weakening her resolve to see justice done. And Lessa as an example of how writing could unpack human experience at multiple levels.
    As a writer, I was slow to develop, especially slow to develop the confidence to believe I could write anything worth publishing (despite the Lessa influence). I was forty when I sold my first story and forty-three when my first book came out. I had never written a fan letter (believing that I shouldn’t bother someone in the throes of creating a book) or met other writers. At my first Worldcon, I was full of awe and almost tongue-tied in the presence of those I admired.
    So it was that a few years later, when my publisher called and asked if I’d like to collaborate with Anne McCaffrey, I was momentarily speechless. Breathless. Anne McCaffrey? Lessa’s writer? And me? Together? “Does water run downhill?” I remember saying after fighting past the disbelief, followed immediately by “Yes, of course.” That collaboration, on two of the Planet Pirates books, was like a master class. Working with Anne was pure delight—she was a generous, helpful, senior partner. I could ask questions; I could ask advice; I could offer ideas, some of which she liked and we used. On the second book, Generation Warriors, I asked about making up a couple of new alien races. “Have fun,” she said. Wow. Not only was I playing in Anne McCaffrey’s sandbox, but I had the freedom to rearrange the toys. (The blue, plush, horse-shaped mathematician . . . the spiky sulfur creature.)
    Then came the launch of the first of those two books, Sassinak, at Dragon*Con, when I first met Anne McCaffrey in person. By this time, I knew that she also loved horses and music and that she admitted to a temper. I knew enough of her history—divorce, moving to Ireland, supporting her children as a single working mother—to see connections between her and many of her characters—including Lessa.
    I was both eager and scared to meet someone who had generated so many different worlds, so very many different characters. Familiar shyness lasted all the way to the actual meeting and melted instantly in her warmth. It felt like suddenly acquiring a favorite aunt I hadn’t known I had.
    That meeting began a friendship that persisted over the next two and a half decades, until her death. When I finally got email, we could correspond that way (much easier than snail mail or telephone, given the time difference from Ireland to Texas). We ran into each other at conventions, very occasionally: Ireland and Texas are a long way apart.
    More and more, as I came to know Anne better, I saw the part of her that generated a character like Lessa, although there was, as with any author and character, more to Anne than Lessa could show—the sparkling wit, for one thing, and that wonderful laugh—the graciousness with which she hosted visitors in her home or at a dinner at a convention. If she ever felt Lessa-impatience, she never showed it.
    But the core of Lessa, her blunt brevity and power, burned bright in the core of Anne McCaffrey, and one incident in our friendship made that very clear. We shared an editor at the time, and I was not convinced the editor was right about something. So I asked Anne, explaining the situation. Back came the answer, with a Weyrwoman’s authority. “She’s right; it won’t do. Fix it.” She was, of course, right.

    ELIZABETH MOON has published twenty-four novels including Nebula Award-winner The Speed of Dark, short fiction in anthologies and magazines, and three short fiction collections, including Moon Flights (2007). Her most recent novel is Limits of Power (Del Rey, June 2013). When not writing, she knits socks, photographs wildlife and native plants, pokes her friends with