Alas, gentle readers, a week has passed. I know, I know, I have grown neglectful, but you would not think ill of my disappearance if you knew how busy I was. Excuses run thin indeed. But oh, the sleepless vigils I have pulled this week . . .
But that is neither here nor there. Yesterday, the most miraculous thing happened. I met T.C. Boyle! Briefly, yes, at a book signing, but he was there and I was there and we SPOKE. Rapture!
Mr. Boyle read a short story from his latest book, Tooth and Claw. As usual, the unmitigated honesty of his characters' emotional reactions took my breath away. The story from which he read drew clever parallels between a cataclysmic celestial collision and the death of a child. He read exceptionally well. His voice filled the bookstore without any aplification, and his pristine diction reached every ear. I was pleased, however, to see that he faltered once or twice over a few particularly difficult lines. He was human. And I loved it. His brutal descriptions echo through my brain even now!
As for Mr. Boyle himself, he looked rather like a burned out rock star - unrully red hair shocked with grey, a messy goatee, impish smirk, weak chin. His eyes crackled. He wore a yellow blazer over a black t-shirt and jeans, moved with lanky deliberation, and smiled to himself. I found him desperately compelling. As much as I hate to admit it, I think I have now developed a celebrity crush.
After the reading, people lined up in front of the podium to get their books signed. Although the wait seemed daunting, by no means would I pass up an opportunity to approach the only man on the planet I look up to unconditionally. I mean it. I adore the man. His work moves me in ways I won't fully understand until I'm at least 2 or 3 decades older.
And I told him so. "Mr. Boyle," I said, suddenly afflicted with dry-mouth, "you're my hero." He seemed stunned, taken aback perhaps. I rambled on about the first time I ever read his work, how it made me feel, how it convinced me to continue writing stories of my own. I thanked him for being a writer and sharing his imagination with the world. "Because your books inspired me to keep writing, I am now at my first choice college on writing scholarship." He asked me which book of his was my favorite. I told him I liked East is East best of all, but I was so nervous that I blurted out that Kurt Vonnegut Jr. was my favorite author, and T.C. Boyle would have to settle for second place. Ugh.
Before I left, he wished me luck in my craft. I felt like I'd been kissed by a saint.
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