South of Broad

Dear Mr. Conroy,

I recently finished reading South of Broad while on vacation at my parents’ river house on Edisto Island. In the not-so-rare showing of emotions that your novels always elicit, I was moved to tears, laughed out loud, got angry, and ultimately had my opinion reaffirmed that you are a most talented writer. You make me wish I was more closely connected to Charleston than being removed by only one generation while also making me feel inadequate in my excitement at knowing exactly the places you are talking about in your novels. You paint such a beautiful picture of Charleston that, while I spent my childhood there visiting my mother’s family and continue to spend my adult life visiting my sisters who live on Johns Island now, I still feel like an outsider looking in.

South of Broad was fantastic and I rooted for Leo and mourned Steve and loved and pitied Molly. I revisited my own experiences with Hurricane Hugo even though I was a 10 year old child in Columbia. But I envisioned how my aunt must have felt because she, too, chose to ride the storm out on James Island. And I remember the pictures of my grandmother’s James Island house and how all of the pine trees seem to miraculously miss the main portion of her house and instead stood upright, the top halves standing straight up next to the lower halves like knives plunged into the ground. I remember my uncle losing a collection of old records when his bottom floor of a downtown apartment was flooded and all that remained was a thick layer of mud and dead fish. And I remember my McClellanville cousins having to live with us for a while because so much there was lost.

I appreciate the rawness of the story and value the opportunity I had to live in Charleston in the 1960s because of South of Broad. Like you, I am an English teacher in Columbia. And as you mentioned in your letter years ago to that young student in West Virginia regarding the banning of Beach Music and The Prince of Tides, I, too, have traveled the world and met many, many people in my readings. And many of my favorites have come from your novels. (I subscribed to the English Journal and in a matter of great coincidence came across the reprinting of your letter just this afternoon.)

I must admit that I did pause every now and then during my reading to look out over the river in the direction of Fripp Island and daydream of one day getting to the chance to have a conversation with you. I once stood in line at the Happy Bookseller in Columbia for hours to have you autograph my copy of My Losing Season and upon my arrival at your table, promptly forgot everything I wanted to ask you. However, today, I would thank you for writing such a powerful novel. And I would beg you to not wait 14 more years – rather, not to make me wait 14 more years for the next one. I thoroughly enjoyed it and hated closing the book and saying good bye to the characters I felt I had come to know personally.

So, if you ever feel so inclined to come to Edisto, I have what I feel to be a pretty inspiring view. An open invitation for some conversation on the porch. (I also can whip up a pretty mean buerre blanc sauce that I find to be truly delightful over sautéed scallops.)

Thank you.