Misery Loves Company

I may well be Rick Bragg’s number one fan! Not in a crazy, Misery’s Kathy Bates way, but I read everything he writes. I love his style, his voice, the spot on descriptions and languid tone of his storytelling. His memoir writing: All over but the Shoutin', Ava's Man, and The Prince of Frogtown have been a huge influence for me in legitimizing my own writing. Armed with a dysfunctional, broken, Southern upbringing steeped in poverty plus a background in journalism, Rick Bragg has given voice to a demographic of people who think they should hide, but are dying to be heard.
Meeting your favorite author and getting that coveted autograph is the Holy Grail for readers. Last year, Rick Bragg appeared at the Southern Festival of Books. We were late (big surprise!), and he had filled the largest auditorium. I felt a bit like a stalker lurking in the back of the room, but it was as good a place as any to soak up his rural North Alabama accent as it dripped and slid through the selection he read from The Prince of Frogtown. Near the lecture’s end, I popped outside to check on the signing line. I was horrified. Hundreds of people were already waiting. My kids wouldn’t last through the wait. I slipped back into the auditorium in time to see Mr. Bragg walking off the stage. What?! I had a question. Why was he already leaving? Hadn’t anyone asked any questions?!?  Oh, hell no! Instinct took control, and my ‘Myrnattude’ shifted into high gear. I was a teenager again, determined and heading for the mosh pit. I gently pushed through the old ladies in polyester and men in Tennessee Titan’s jerseys, and stepped into the exit aisle directly in his path. I extended my arm in introduction. Surprisingly, he took my hand.

“Hi, Mr. Bragg, I’m a big fan of yours, and I had a question. Can I have one second?”

“Walk with me,” he told me. I did, almost bursting.

“I’m a memoir writer; I come from a very dysfunctional, poor Southern family. How is it you deal with dragging up all the worst, most painful parts of your life when you’re writing? I mean, I feel like I need a therapist just to write a paragraph.” I spoke a mile a minute, not wanting to waste any of my time.

“Well, for me, writing is therapy. It’s how I process all of it. Keep writing.” He told me, shook my hand again, and slipped into a chair behind his signing table.  

This year I wasn’t missing that autograph; I skipped the lecture.  My copy of The Prince of Frogtown rested inside my backpack while I played red light, green light on the promenade of the Legislative Plaza with my wild kids. We were third in line. I didn’t care how long the line grew behind me. Eventually, the big double doors opened and Rick Bragg strolled out, several hundred people following behind and falling into the line. No bossy redhead tracking him this year as he took his place behind the table. After a short wait, I was face to face with my favorite writer again. 

"Hello," I took his hand, shaking it, “I’m a big fan of yours.”

He was jovial and appreciative. He gave my hand a lively shake, and thanked me for being there. I told him how I saw him last year, and he charmed me by telling me he remembered me. Then he proved it.

“You’re a writer. I never forget a redhead. I had my heart broken by a redhead once.” His voice glided like a biscuit around the edge of a plate, sopping up the last drops of honey.

I offered him my business card, because what ‘emerging author’ doesn’t want to say their favorite writer has one of her cards? He put it in his pocket with a vague promise to look at my site. Keeping his promise isn’t important; that he was kind enough to say it to someone who aspires to his craft is the important part. We joked another minute about the evils and joys of redheads. I watched him think and then scribble something in my book. We said our goodbyes, and I let him move on to his next “number one fan.”

What a great guy! Everyone ought to get to meet their heroes. If you’re lucky, you’ll both turn out to be fairly nice, normal characters, even if you do share the same screwed up background.
It wasn’t until later that night that I got a second to look at the title page: 
“Dear Myrna, I love Redheads! -Rick Bragg"