“Why do they not teach you that time is a finger snap and an eye blink, and that you should not allow a moment to pass you by without taking joyous, ecstatic note of it, not wasting a single moment of its swift, breakneck circuit?” — Pat Conroy
A year ago today, March 4th, my favorite author passed away due to cruel, diligent, incessant illness.
I’m a librarian and every time a new release calendar arrives in my email, I cannot help but skim the lines for Mr. Conroy’s name. I cannot help but wish so fervently for a new word from this author. If it’s an “I’m Dead and Here’s What I See,” that’s fine. I’ll take that. He’ll describe it beautifully. If the words were new pages of manuscript pulled from beneath a pile of old receipts and cupcake wrappers, I’d take that, too. Dust them off. Or don’t. I can handle dust. I just want to read what he writes.
But so far, no new words.
Recent literary offerings are writ in broadly painted strokes. Today’s attention span is ephemeral, a four-pica width, so tightly packed as to disallow for character development or description. Writers offer nuance, a shade, and leave intricacies to the reader.
And that’s what our general reading population wants. Quick story, fun plot, hopefully a dead body by page three, then let’s move on because I have things to do.
I respect that. I, myself, need to read many books weekly in order to stay on top of trends.
But. BUT.
When I need a real read, a story, an immersive tale, I adore a detail brush. And coffee. And a squooshy blanket.
It’s my Conroy Trifecta.
I had the joy of meeting Mr. Conroy once, and to this day, I squirm at my own geekiness. I didn’t ask what I wanted to ask, I didn’t apply enough Fandom to the situation, but I swam, denuded in nerd-dom, too briefly into Mr. Conroy’s ice-blue eyes and have pictures to prove it.
I guess that must work.
And I’ll still wish for his name on every New Release list.
