If I could give all of you a copy of Pat Conroy’s, My Reading Life, I would. I just reread it, and if you love to read, you’ll realize you haven’t read nearly enough. Conroy keeps books of favorite poets on his desk to jump start his writing day. I’m not going to return this book to the shelf this time, but keep it next to me while I FINISH this second novel.
Today I finished a scene while under Conroy’s spell where Katherine has arrived in Rome and is having dinner with her boss and his new friends. I wrote:
By the time Robert walked Katherine back to the Raffaello she’d been immersed in a baptismal font filled with red wine. Rising from the font her internal clock was now reset, her inner ear attuned to a language whose words sound like music playing on an Italian radio station. How could she resist this religion of gestures and bravado proclaiming the good news of Italy. Robert had indeed found a perfect priest who’s anointment, albeit with olive oil, had blessed and changed him. (Stardust/Stepheny Houghtlin)
I can hear you saying, “Stepheny, get over yourself,”and this Conroy adoration, but I can’t help myself. Hoping Conroy would approve of at least one of these sentences?