I adore Pat Conroy.  As a writer, I think of how puny my words are next to his.  Puny and pedestrian, on the verge of anemic.  Which makes me love him all the more for his brilliance.

To my delighted surprise, as I read his book My Reading Life, I saw how we’re alike; I saw what Pat Conroy and I share: harsh words thrown like a hardball to the head by someone we admire, yet disregarded because their truth was not our own.  This, mah babies, takes a courage that hurts to wield, because as writers we are rarely satisfied with our malleable words and how we bind them together to form a specific image, so you too can see our collective pain or joy.

I take great solace in knowing that Pat’s mentor, a man filled with the knowledge of books and words and greatness, said this about Pat’s writing:

“You’re never going to be a great writer. Not even a good one. You can aspire to mediocrity.  Nothing else.”

The Great Santini’s Pat Conroy was told this by a man who knew him deeply and took great interest to foster Pat’s future success as a writer that would leave his mark on the literary world, as a writer that other writers would use as their true north.  Pat Conroy was told he was a mediocre writer.

Damn, brother.  That had to hurt.

When I read those words, I sputtered out an incredulous snort, because after all, if Pat Conroy is mediocre, where the hell does that leave me?

My take-away dove deeper still.

Pat Conroy is anything but mediocre.  He is astonishing.  I feel moved and surprised and awed every time I read his works.  He use of language is poetic and inspiring.  Thank God, he knew his own heart; he knew his own path.  He resisted the overpowering voice of another to favor his own.  We should all be so wise.  That was my take-away, and should be yours, in whatever endeavor you feel is worthy of your efforts.

Pat wrote because he had something to say; he read to see himself.

“Writers of the world, if you’ve got a story, I want to hear it.  I promise it will follow me to my last breath.  My soul will dance with pleasure, and it will change the quality of all my waking hours.  You will hearten me and brace me up for the hard days that enter my life on the prowl.  I reach for a story to save my own life.  Always.”

This is why I write: to tell what must be told, to make sense of a world that makes no sense, to save my life.

My words may be puny, pedestrian and on the verge of anemia, but they are my words used to save my life, and I write on.  I am not bold enough to think they should save another, but my hope is that someone reads them and feels the spark of hope and courage, understanding that they are no alone, that they have me.

Amen.