One of my favorite writers died recently—Brian Doyle: a left-leaning story grabbing unapologetic Roman Catholic and one heck of a mentoring inspiration to students, writers and the readers who loved his work.
Did you notice that there were no commas in that post-colon, descriptive paean? Doyle had a habit of running words together, defying grammar’s guidance with great craft and lyricism, so I copied him per Oscar Wilde’s observation— “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that mediocrity can pay to greatness.”
Doyle thought novels were like long dreams in which you ” take an idea out for a walk and the characters take over and you really run along behind them, typing as fast as you can.” After his first novel, Mink River (was published in 2010, his brother sent him a page full of commas and the note: “You might want to learn to use these.”
If you’ve ever heard Brian speak—and I did at one of the Chuckanut Writers Conferences—you know that a podium could not contain him. He moved across a stage, engaging his audience with relentless charm, boundless energy, and a rare degree of empathy.
He died of what he called a ‘big honking brain tumor,” diagnosed last November. There is more information in the obituaries listed below, but for now, I’d like to leave you with Doyle’s Last Prayer and the suggestion that you go to your local independent bookstore or library and buy Mink River, Ben Laden’s Bald Spot, The Wet Engine, Martin, Marten, or his newest, The Adventures of John Carson in Several Quarters of the World: a novel of Robert Louis Stevenson.
Last Prayer by Brian Doyle
Dear Coherent Mercy, Thanks. Best life ever. Personally, I never thought a cool woman would come close to understanding me, let alone understanding me but liking me anyway, but that happened!
And You and I both remember that doctor in Boston saying polite but businesslike that we could not have children but then came three children fast and furious! And no man ever had better friends, and no man ever had a happier childhood and wilder brothers and a sweeter sister, and I was that rare guy who not only loved but liked his parents and loved sitting and drinking tea and listening to them!
And You let me write some books that weren’t half bad, and I got to have a career that actually no kidding helped some kids wake up to their best selves, and no one ever laughed more at the ocean of hilarious things in this world, or gaped more in astonishment at the wealth of miracles everywhere every moment.
I could complain a little right here about the long years of back pain and the occasional awful heartbreak, but Lord, those things were infinitesimal against the slather of gifts You gave mere me, a muddle of a man, so often selfish and small.
But no man was every more grateful for your profligate generosity, and here at the very end, here in my last lines, I close my eyes and weep with joy that I was alive, and blessed beyond measure, and might well be headed back home to the incomprehensible Love from which I came, mewling, many years ago.
But hey, listen can I ask one last favor? If I am sent back for another life, can I meet my lovely bride again? In whatever form? Could we be hawks, or otters maybe? And can we have the same kids again if possible? And if I get one friend again, can I have my buddy Pete? He was a huge guy in this life—make him the biggest otter ever and I’ll know him right away, okay?
Thanks, Boss. Thanks from the bottom of my heart. See You soon. Remember—otters. Otters rule. And so: amen.
Links to Obituaries: http://www.opb.org/artsandlife/article/brian-doyle-oregon-author-dies-at-60/