On Almost Meeting Pat Conroy

And why I’m still mad about it.

As you know, it’s Pat Conroy month here at The Book Tide. And ever since we decided on Tell Me A Story: My Life With Pat Conroy as our March book club selection, I’ve been thinking about the one and only opportunity I had to meet the literary legend–and how I blew it.

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Some authors are so revered that their names are whispered at literary events like an incantation. Authors who earn an “esque” after their names. Didion-esque. Conroy-esque. Authors whose style is so unique, so mesmerizing that others emulate them for decades. The Kings and Queens of publishing as it were.

And I will never forget the day I saw the reigning King of Publishing in the flesh, or the regret I’ve held since that day. In October of 2014 I was invited to attend the Southern Festival of the Book in Nashville. My debut novel had been published a few months earlier and it was the last event I was scheduled to attend. If I’m being totally honest, I was exhausted and wilted and tired of talking about myself and my book. So as I sat in the green room, waiting for my panel, I was a little subdued. And then heard THE GASP. When I looked up Pat Conroy stood in the door, and fifty or so authors sat open-mouthed staring at him.

Here’s what you need to understand about me: if I am in awe of you, I will avoid you at all costs. I will not make eye contact or ask for your autograph. My absurd brain believes that the best way to show respect is to be the one person in a room not genuflecting. I will give you one less hand to shake. One less gushing compliment to deflect. I will leave you alone because I assume that you’re tired of being mobbed. This is unreasonable and I have no idea why I do it, but it’s my default setting.

So I sat there, watching fifty authors rise to their feet and form a line. Instead of joining them, I settled deeper into my chair. A very flawed plan considering that within minutes I was the only person sitting. And three feet away, directly to my left, was Pat Conroy. But I dug in, determined.

Reader, I made it weird.

The simple truth is that I froze. And it was awkward. And embarrassing. And obvious. I find myself in green rooms like that on occasion and at the time I thought I’d have another chance. I assumed that I would rally and do better next time. But you know how this story ends and that second chance never came. If I could do it all over again I would get to my feet and shake his hand. I would tell him that we share a publicist and a publisher and that I’m honored to also share that same colophon on the spine of my books. I would tell him what an honor it was to meet him. How staggered I am by his talent. I would allow myself to be in awe. He would have forgotten me instantly but I would have treasured the memory.

A memory that I never made because I’m an idiot.

So when I woke on March 4th, 2016, and learned of Pat Conroy’s passing I was devastated. But I instantly knew how to make amends. I decided to read through his entire body of work as penance for my stupidity. I already owned The Prince of Tides, but I bought each of his other books on my book tour that spring. I have spent the years since immersing myself in Pat Conroy’s south (reading slowly, of course, because once I finish his body of work, that’s it). I’ve lived here for much of my adult life but I can honestly say I’ve never really understood it until now.

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Here’s what I know now: shake your hero’s hand. Give that gushing compliment. Send the email. Write the letter. Tell them that story in the signing line about how their novel changed your life or made you want to be a writer or helped you forgive your dad. They’ll understand. They do this because they know words are powerful and they want to hear that they have touched your life. Don’t be like me. Be a fan girl.

~ Ariel Lawhon

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