Looking back on the past year of my life, I can hardly remember it. It’s almost like I wasn’t here. Things were happening all around me – as things always do – but I scarcely noticed. I was barely present.
I think it had to be that way. Not being here was some kind of weird survival skill that just kicked in, automatically.
Instant widowhood is not for sissies, y’all. I’ve always been the ultimate sissy, so it REALLY wasn’t for me. I think I had to shut out the world’s insistent liveliness – basically go dormant – just to endure.
I’m told that while I wasn’t paying attention – while I was just enduring – Americans fell in love with soccer, war broke out in the middle east, Taylor Swift got married at Madison Square Garden, AI became an existential threat to civilization, and President Donald Trump changed hair colors several times.
(Currently, he’s gone ‘toasted walnut’ for fall.)
Even though I missed all that, there were a few experiences that pierced my grief cocoon, occasionally beaming light into my shadowy, sea cave existence. They drifted by like bright innertubes, and I’d grab on and float for a bit, surprised to find my head above water. Only now, looking back, can I see them for the miracles they were.
One of those miracles was the Pat Conroy Literary Festival, last October, just six weeks after Jeff died. I remember dragging myself to a poetry reading – under the late, great Witness Tree – almost against my will, only to find myself showered with love. (And poetry, which is very similar to love.) I vaguely remember hugging lots of people I hadn’t seen in a while… including Michael O’Keefe. (Did you know he’s a very fine poet?) And I remember crying absolute buckets. Cathartic tears. It was good medicine.
But the next day, something not just medicinal, but truly magical, occurred. I hope I can convey how extraordinary it was using only words. Not sure I can, but here goes…
I had committed to interviewing a couple writers on stage that afternoon – Cassandra King and Patti Callahan Henry, two women I adore – but due to the “late unpleasantness” in my life, I had done zero prep work. Zilch. My husband always teased me about my tendency to over-prepare, so he would have been proud, but he wasn’t around to applaud my slackness.
I sat at my computer that morning, trying to compose a list of interview questions that would be sassy and fun, though I was feeling neither emotion. I decided it might be interesting to ask the question: What’s the best book you’ve read all year?
Since I was supposed to be “in conversation” with these two accomplished authors – both leading the discussion and participating in it – I figured I’d better have an answer of my own, just in case.
I pondered it for a minute – thought about all the great books I’d read with my book club that year – and one immediately stood out: a novel called All The Colors of the Dark. We’d read it many months earlier, and I couldn’t even remember who’d written it, so I did some Googling. I found a terrific article about the author in the NY Times – a guy named Chris Whitaker – and learned of his harrowing backstory, growing up rough in the mean streets of working-class London.
I was stunned, because All The Colors of the Dark is set in Missouri and feels extremely American. I’d never have guessed the author was anything but. Reading about Whitaker, his troubled past, and his development as a writer brought his beautiful, haunting novel back to vivid life, though it had never really left me. I found myself then reading reviews of the novel, which were very good – and his other books, as well – and wondering why I’d never heard of this writer before. I was fascinated. It felt good to be fascinated again.
Eventually, I pulled myself out the Chris Whitaker rabbit hole, finished my discussion questions, and decided to head over to the Conroy Festival early. My panel wasn’t until 2pm, but I knew my friend Sean Scapellato – in from Charleston – was moderating a panel at 11:30, and I hoped I might see him milling around in the lobby before it started. I didn’t, but I saw lots of other friends, and it was lovely to be among the living again.
Around 11:45, after catching up with some folks, I realized the panel had already started in the auditorium and thought I’d just pop in for a few minutes to see Sean in action. I had no idea who was on the panel, and I wasn’t really interested. In my widow’s fog, I’d barely glanced at the festival’s schedule of events – or even the ad in my own paper! – and the names of participating writers had failed to register. Somebody told me this panel was about writing ‘thrillers,’ and I don’t read a lot of thrillers.
So, I quietly crept into the auditorium, and instead of taking a seat, I perched on the steps by the doors, to ease my anticipated early get-away. I had missed the introductions, so I still had no clue who these writers were. But one of them – a youngish, dark-haired man – was speaking as I sat down, and he had a decidedly British accent.
I was intrigued. We don’t usually get writers from England at the Pat Conroy Literary Festival. We tend toward writers from the American South. (It’s not a rule, but it’s a tendency.) The youngish, dark-haired man was witty and captivating, and when he stopped speaking – in his utterly charming accent – my friend Sean, the moderator, quipped, “Obviously, Chris Whitaker is from Yemassee.” The audience howled and I just sat there, astonished. The man I’d never heard of until today but had been reading about all morning – the author of my favorite book of the year – was sitting here on stage at the Pat Conroy Literary Festival. Straight outta the UK.
I immediately moved from the easy-get-away steps to a proper seat. I was all in! For the first time in six weeks, I was actually here again! The entire panel discussion was riveting – the other two authors, Chris Pavone and John Hart, were terrific, too – and I found myself laughing, smiling, learning things, processing ideas… feeling almost like me again.
Serendipity? Synchronicity? A God thing? Call it whatever you want, but the Pat Conroy Literary Festival put me on the path to recovery last year, and I believe there was powerful magic involved.
The Festival returns next month – October 22 – 25 – and it’s going to be a doozy. Among other highlights, the Conroy Center is celebrating 50 years of The Great Santini, and I’ll be interviewing actor (and poet!) Michael O’Keefe on stage at USCB, before a screening of that classic film.
I’m guessing I’ll be over-prepared.
