The  road  to my hometown was  a  long, and arduous one.
I  loved  the walk ,and the privacy  it  gave  me.
My  mind  was  awash with  thoughts  of  confusion  on  foot of my favourite author’s premature demise. 
Verna Usherette  was  her  name.  The  leisurely stroll weighed  heavily  on  me as  I  struggled  to  come  to  terms  with  her  departure.
Verna, in the general scheme of things, was  never  a  very  popular  author  but  I  felt she  spoke  to  me  even  in death.
Usherette’s  life,  like  her  death, was  shrouded  in  mystery.
Quite often I wrote enchanting fan letters to this author and in return there was an ethereal handwritten reply.
Her preoccupation with things beyond this world had a ghostly form.
Eerie in an intriguing manner even in Verna’s  responses which often felt like floating journeys between one planet  and another.
The  aging  process,  losing  one's  way,  searching for new escapes,  and otherworldly outlets  were  among  her  many  themes.  The manner  in  which  people  changed  shape  and  form with  time, allied  to  plots beyond Mother Earth  were also  part  of  her  repertoire.  There  seemed  to  be  an  ardent  desire  on  her  part  to  defy  Birth and Death  in  the  process  of  her search for this  elusive nirvana, an end point where life’s meaning would unfold.
Miss Usherette could link and loop angular profiles, broad brushstroke  upon broad brushstroke whilst simultaneously sidetracking every observant reader.
In summation  this  had  a  particular  resonance  as  I continued the trek towards  my  very  picturesque  hometown  with its  multitude  of  signposts,
byways and uncanny detours.
They  had  an esoteric  symbolic depth when out and about while  absorbing  very visual environments.
People  were  always  asking  me  for  directions  - asking  the  way as if I had an aura of expertise. Verna was uppermost every time I  directed  total  strangers.
You could feel  Verna  Usherette’s  presence  as  the  most  unusual, and,  sometimes  bizarre  characters  enquired  about local interest spots.
Some  of  these  people  would  have  been  admirably  suited  to  many  of  Miss  Usherette's  novels.  Did  Verna send  them I wonder?
The  most  directionless  elements  in  society  would  stop  me.  They  were  always  searching  for  something, and it wasn't necessarily  always for nightlife or entertainment.

Verna’s  passing  was  rather  sudden  at  forty-nine  years  of  age.
It  was  SpringTime  which  gave  her  death  a special  poignancy. 
Her  books  had  this  magnetic  effect  on  everyone who bought them.  Many’s  the  time  I  was  lost  in  one  of  her intricately woven narratives  when  someone  had  to  remind  me  that  I was  on  planet earth.
Suddenly  I  heard  the  screeching  of  car  wheels  as  a  Toyota  car  pulled  up  beside  me.   A car  window  was  lowered  to  reveal an artistic greying  middle-aged  lady.  “Excuse me  sir.”
“May  I ask  you  a  question?“
Of course I said  with querolous  surprise  in  my  voice.
“I  saw  you  earlier today.
You  seemed angst ridden, possessed by gloom.
There  was sadness  about  you  as  if  you  had  lost  someone  or  something.“
An insight laden vocal cascade, a waterfall wonderment, clinically accurate, captivating in other words.

This piece is entirely fictional to the best of my knowledge.
The author Verna  doesn’t represent any real person, past or present as far as I know