An Ode, of sorts, to Robert B. Parker

As some of you may know, one of my all-time favorite authors died recently, and I thought I’d spend a little time reflecting on what he brought into my reading and writing life during his too short life, and very prolific career.

I am a reader. My husband says I eat books. My love for reading is as much a part of me as my brown eyes or fat toes. I was nine years old when the magic happened. I was at my dad's house for Christmas break and someone in my then-stepmother's family had given me a set of five books in a series called Couples. Change of Hearts; Fire and Ice; Alone, Together. You get the picture. There was a different teenage couple gracing each cover, dressed in all manner of '80s hideousness; primary-colored stripes galore, big frosted, feathered hair, high-waisted pleats, suspenders even. I'm sure you can imagine. They were teenagers in the ‘80s, with crazy, exciting lives. They pulled me into their world and out of the discomfort of my own. I had escaped successfully for the first time.

After that, the sky was the limit. I read everything I could get my hands on, at least until I discovered boys and drugs. My voraciousness coupled with my mother’s forward-thinking led her to pass on to me any literature she had fallen in love with and me to eat it promptly.

Getting my hands on something like Spenser is still the stuff for which I live. A whole series of scrumptious characters I loved spending time with, previously undiscovered by me, and thus coming in one big bunch. (I’m experiencing something similar right now and it’s just as thrilling – no big talk.) At that time, I probably had 30 books laid at my feet. I gobbled them up, and when I ran out, I waited with baited breath for my next installment. I also read most of his non-Spenser fiction (only one of the westerns, sorry to say). Love and Glory is still one of my all-time favorite love stories, yet another impossible love. I’ve probably read it six or seven times. I lent my copy out and have yet to remember who I lent it to, but if I had it in my house, I’d read it again right now.

Robert Parker is one of maybe four authors that can consistently make me laugh out loud, one of three whose fan club I have actually considered joining.

Externally, he had everything I want to have as a writer; wit, charm, soul-piercing insight.

Internally, he had everything I need as a writer; discipline - writing five pages a day no matter what, and the value of love - married to the same woman for 44 years, he dedicated nearly every one of his 30 Spenser novels, and probably a good deal more of his other works, to Joan.

Also, I learned all I know about writing a fight because I’ve read every one of his Spenser novels probably 12 times. When I wrote my first physical fight, I relied heavily on what I learned listening to Spenser’s head as he pounded on some well-deserving punk (and occasionally got pounded on himself). (I have to say, I also relied on Dan saying, “NO, Gaaby, they don’t need to TALK about it. They’re guys. They’ve made each other bleed. Move on.”)

A while ago, when John Hughes died, I read an essay written by a woman who had struck up a correspondence with him when she was a teenager, in the height of his career. It was a beautiful, touching piece and I cried when I read about how she had reached out, as only a tenacious teenager can, and made him notice her, and thanked him for his contribution to her life. She was fortunate enough to get to know him and to glean some knowledge about life and her art because she took that chance, or felt compelled sufficiently enough to act.

I’m sorry to say, I never even attempted. That’s the kind of bold move I am hesitant to make. What if nothing ever comes of it? What if I feel silly?

So Robert Parker never knew how much I loved him, and now he never will.

A long, long time ago, Bestie B told me to send my manuscript to Steph along with a letter telling her how hers were the only words I could read through the year I was writing my first draft, how I read them over and over because, one, I wasn’t threatened by her voice; two, I felt inspired by the relationships she was able to create and how they made me FEEL; and, three, I found something new inside them every time I read them over. Silly as I feel writing this, being able to go back to the safety of those books over and over again somehow brought me to a place where I was able to realize one of the most important things I’ve learned on this journey, that there is enough for everyone.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said to B when she proposed this idea. “It probably wouldn’t even get close to her.”

B, of course, said with the confidence that comes with being a teller of truth, “If it is meant to get into Stephenie Meyer’s hands, I believe God can have it hand-delivered.”

Hmm. Something to think about.