A Phone Call from Pat Conroy

I read The Prince of Tides for the first time when I was 10 years old. (Probably, this was too young, but there you have it.) I took the book from my parents’ study one summer day when the house was silent. I remember distinctly having to hoist myself up onto the bottom level of the built-in bookshelves—just like launching myself out of the Botany Woods pool minus the ladder, a skill perfected by all us neighborhood kids—standing with my toes poised, my heels hanging over the edge. I stretched, reaching into the family stacks until I found it. I can still feel the worn edge of the binding, the multiple old creases there. This was a book that had been read often by my parents. It was beloved.

As thorough as my education had been thus far, Lake Forest Elementary had not prepared me for the magic and mystery of Pat Conroy’s storytelling. Though by then I was an avid reader, nothing I’d read was so viscerally familiar as the spellbinding way in which he talked about my home state, South Carolina. Nothing I’d read had affected me so deeply. It sank into my bones, became part of my DNA. Part of family’s DNA, really, as we all—my father, mother, sister, and I—fell in love with his writing. Pat Conroy: literary patron saint of the Crawford family.

So when my first novel was sold to a small press, and all the cogs began turning in the creaky wheel towards publication, suddenly I had to find authors from whom I’d hope to gain endorsement. I could think of no one, at first, but Conroy.

It didn’t matter that my novel was historical, set about 200 years before most of his. Or that I was a writerly nobody. Or that in my mind he was so big, so beloved, he probably received requests like these every day. I decided that, since this was the one and only time in my life I’d have a first novel being published, I’d shoot for the moon.

I wrote him a letter, via his literary agent, asking him if he’d be so kind as to read an advance review copy of my novel, Keowee Valley, and if he liked it, to perhaps offer a quote (also known as a “blurb”: basically, an endorsement).

Most of the letter was heartfelt, genuine, thoroughly shameless fawning. It’s an odd thing, as a 30-something, to write a fan letter. But the man is my favorite living writer, and I knew no other thing to do than to tell the truth.

About a month later, I’d forgotten about it. (After mailing the letter I’d determined to put it out of my head. I figured he probably got a stack of fan mail each week—he’d likely never see mine.) Then, one afternoon after ignoring my cell phone all day like I tend to do, I noticed I’d five missed calls. My husband was giving our two year-old a bath; I could hear them giggling and splashing. Standing at my desk, I began listening to my messages.

Pat Conroy
Photo credit: www.patconroy.com

There he was. Pat Conroy. His voice boomed out of my cell phone, gruff but with a smile in it. At first, I thought, My sister is playing a very mean trick on me. I’m going to kill her. But as he continued, referencing the letter and his own response to it, I knew it to be true. I walked numbly towards the bathroom, calling for my husband. When he emerged with towel in hand, looking at me inquisitively, I had a hard time speaking.

“Pat Conroy left a message on my cell phone. Pat Conroy is on my cell phone,” I stammered. Then I sat in an ungainly heap on the hardwood floor, my legs giving out.

There are plenty of people out there who really won’t get how big this is. Not many folks these days go gaga over writers. My husband has known me for quite some time, and so knew how I felt about Conroy’s writing. But still, I tried to explain it to him thus:

“It’s like Bono leaving you a message on your cell phone,” I told him.

My husband went to college in Athens, Georgia, in the late ’80s. He saw U2 at the Omni in Atlanta during their Joshua Tree tour, and he’s taken me to two U2 concerts since we’ve been married. He loves those guys. He particularly adores The Edge. Perhaps I should’ve named him.

So, I sent an ARC of Keowee Valley to the address Conroy left for me, along with an effusive note of thanks. Then I waited.

I pretended like I wasn’t waiting. I told only my family that he’d left me the message. (They, of course, sent up a plane with a banner.) I told everyone I doubted he’d even remember, or that if he decided he couldn’t offer a blurb, I wouldn’t care. It was enough that he’d liked my letter—that he’d left a message on my cell phone.

I lied.

I wanted, more than anything, for the man to like my novel, for him to see something worthy in my writing. Of course I did.

Long story short: He liked it. He really did. And he offered a blurb I’ll treasure always.

Too often when we get a chance to meet or interact with our idols, we’re disappointed. They’re not the gods we liken them to; certainly, they’re not perfect. Sometimes, they can even be rude. Twice I’ve met other writers I’d admired, and they brushed me off. One, during a panel at a book festival several years ago, even told a snarky joke at my expense in response to a question I’d asked. (No, I’m not telling you who they are.) Maybe, she’d had a bad night. But I haven’t bought a book of hers since—not because I’m vindictive, but because I no longer see her, or her writing, in the same light.

Not so with gentleman Conroy. He took the time to call me, to leave a long, detailed, and unfailingly kind message. Who does that sort of thing anymore?

Apparently, the great ones do.

This has been a long, rough, exhausting journey to the publication of my first novel. Nothing about it has been what I’d expected. There have been dark moments when I wondered if the whole deal wouldn’t fall apart, when I doubted myself and my work. I still do.

But the light moments, like Conroy calling me and ultimately offering such praise for my work? Like the other incredibly gifted and generous writers offering kind words for this first-time author, a person they’d never met? They have been the glow of lightning bugs in the summer night.

Sheer magic.

Literary Idols and Luck

There's a message from one of my literary idols on my cell phone right now. No kidding: this man is my favorite living writer--possibly my favorite writer of all time. I'm still hornswoggled by the fact that if I dial for my messages and push "2," his voice is there. And it's not a joke.

He's on my voicemail because I recently wrote him a letter, care of his literary agent, asking if he'd consider reading a review copy of KEOWEE VALLEY, and if he likes it, possibly offering a blurb. Honestly, I never in my wildest dreams--and as my husband and anyone who's had to share a room with me over the years can attest, they are wild--thought he'd respond. I never even thought he'd get the letter. My guess is that this particular gentleman receives mounds of fan mail each year, much of it from wannabe writers who are also fans. But I've been reading his work since I was 10 years old, worshipping the way he crafts words on the page for so very long, that when it came time for my first novel to be published, I had to take the chance.

I'd tell you his name, but I'm superstitious. (This is coming from the same girl who in high school didn't change her stinky-nasty-sweaty soccer socks until we lost a game, and offers up the same exact prayer before road trips that she's been repeating since age 15.) I really want him to like my novel. If he doesn't, I'll be okay, but I don't want anyone to know that. Let me just tell you that he's a modern Southern literary icon, that all his books are bestsellers and many of them made into movies. He's the voice of the South, at least to me. His writing sings and pulses and burns, and he's the literary touchstone of my South Carolina childhood.

There.

When I first listened to his message, I thought someone was playing a cruel joke on me. But as he kept speaking, I knew it was real. My legs literally went out from under me, and I sat in an ungainly lump on the floor in my house. I momentarily lost the power of speech. He said many things in his message, but one thing he did say was that I'd written a "terrific" letter, and that while he tried to avoid doing blurbs any more, when someone writes him a letter like that he has to read the novel.

There's a waterfall in Pisgah National Forest, near my home, called Courthouse Falls. It's about 50 feet high, and there's a deep pool at the bottom. It's dark in this part of the woods, even in daylight, and in summer everything is green, mossy, slick and growing. I jumped off those falls in near pitch-darkness for the first and only time, a little over a decade ago. Night was falling fast and deep as it does in the Southern woods, and all I could see as I curled my toes over slick rock and rotting leaves was the vague white of the water where it crashed into the pool at the bottom. God, I wanted to jump. I can hear the thunder of the falls in my ears and feel the thump of adrenaline in my blood, even now. I can still feel the frigid shock of that spring-fed water.

I'm learning, more and more with this book preparation-and-publication process, that it's necessary to go for it. To step out over the dark and the wide, even when it's scary. You never know what might happen.

Granted, when you jump off a waterfall, you're taking your life into your own hands. I don't necessarily recommend it, especially for the faint of heart. (And if my daughter ever comes across this post in her teen years I plan to deny, deny, deny.) But when you're a first-time author reaching out to your favorite published authors, seeking their approval and help, what's the worst that could happen? They say no. Or they don't answer at all.

It's still worth the plunge. Trust me.

Blurbs and Quotes for a First Novel: Or, It's Not All Greek To Me

I'd thought, after my novel was sold and the fairy dust cleared and settled, that the process of finding authors to read my work and offer a blurb or quote I could use to promote the work would be a bit like attempting to get into a sorority.

I don't know how it's done elsewhere, but in the South when a sweet girl goes off to the big university and decides (or others decide for her) that she'd like to be in a sorority, friends of the family who are alums will often write letters for said girl. They send them to the powers-that-be in that sorority, encouraging the powers to take a good, hard look at the girl: that she'd be perfect for their group. (I always imagined perky 21 year-old college seniors sitting around a pink office with Greek letters embroidered on everything--the stationary, the backs of chairs, cross-stitched and hung in pink frames on the walls. But that's not fair, because really, those girls could easily be sitting in a pub having beers, a stack of letters on the table before them.) The point is: I thought it'd be harder than it really is.

The fact is, authors have to work more diligently than ever to promote their own work. The times they are a changin'. So while I've utilized my literary agent and my editor when seeking those quotes and blurbs, I'm doing the bulk of it myself. And what I've found is that most writers are incredibly generous, willing to take the time to help out a first-timer in need. That's not only awesome, it's a relief.

I haven't followed any format. I simply made a list of my favorite authors, whether or not I thought I'd have a chance of getting a quote or blurb from them. I concentrate on (but don't limit myself to) historical fiction authors, because that's the genre of my novel. And then I do my research--entirely online as it turns out--learning the best ways to contact them. Some are easier to reach than others: they've got direct email addresses on their websites. Others insist you go through their literary agents or publishers, and yet others have online forms you can fill out (these concern me the most, for some wierd reason... because I wonder where that information is actually ending up). I also look into their places of business, especially those who also teach for a living, and find email addresses that way.

When writing to these folks, I write from my heart. I give the necessary information--my name, my novel title, my writing background, my publisher/editor's info, the publication date, etc--but I also let them know how much I admire their work. That is, of course, the reason I choose them: I love their stuff. I'm not afraid to admit that I fawn (and yes, it is fawning when you're openly praising a writer whose work you've loved for years), and I'm honest about it. Email is tough: so much meaning can be misconstrued. It's important to be straight-forward. Be yourself. This is my theory.

Authors who offer direct email addresses, I've found, respond the quickest. And they'll tell you, right away and often with regret, that they simply don't have the time to devote to reading your novel. Others will write back immediately, surprising you, and agree. They give a mailing address, I pop a Special Format Review copy of my novel in a big, manilla envelope with a handwritten "thank you" note (because, good Lord am I thankful!), and off it goes.

The worst case scenario is that the author just doesn't respond. But persistence (in every aspect of life, whether you're learning to cook creamy grits, garden successfully, or trying to potty train your dog or your daughter) is key. I'd attempted to contact one of my favorite best-selling historical novelists in every way I could find--via her online form, through Goodreads, through Facebook, through her publisher--but hadn't had any luck. I decided I'd send her one more quick, private Facebook message, and that would be it. By the next day she'd sent me a direct email, apologizing for taking so long at getting back to me, and offering to read my novel. She was honest: She couldn't promise a blurb, but she'd read it.

And that's all any first-time author can ask for. It's a review copy, so it hasn't been edited yet. More than that, I know that my novel won't be every person's "cup of tea." And that's okay.

So far, I've had two wonderful writers read my novel and offer blurbs. One, Darci Hannah (author of The Exile of Sara Stevenson and The Angel of Blythe Hall, two novels I love) I emailed directly using an address she offers on her web site. Another, Philip Lee Williams (a prolific writer in several genres, and the author of The Flower Seeker, The Campfire Boys, etc) I met through a fan letter, me to him. I'd read an essay he'd written about the place where my novel is set, and the essay affected me so deeply I just had to write him. We began a correspondence, and I asked if he'd read my novel. Both of these authors not only agreed, they were gracious, generous, and kind, and I'll be forever thankful for their praise.

I've got other authors currently reading my novel, and it's difficult not to worry on that: to hope like all heck they'll like the story I tried to tell. Some of them will, and some of them won't.

But I'm finding, more and more, that writers are--overwhelmingly--an interesting, generous, quirky, wonderful bunch. When you're a writer, your daily life can be quite solitary. You sit at your desk, staring at a computer screen (or a legal pad, if you're old-school), and you invoke the mystery. You pray for it to visit its magic upon you. You work by yourself, because no one can do it but you. It's easy to forget that you're part of a community--that you can be, if you want to be. You've just got to reach out.

I'm big on tribes. My tribe of friends, especially, is comprised of the coolest cats I know. But it's nice to know that I may just be joining another tribe soon, a tribe of authors I already admire. And as long as the hazing doesn't include zit cream, funneling really bad beer, or eating mystery food while blindfolded, I am all in.