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"Oh mom, what happened?" my wife Allison screamed, slumping forward in the chair, the tone of her voice one that instantly exclaims bad news, an accident, even death. She began to cry, rocking back and forth, holding her knees to her chest.  Sunday, September 13, 2009, marked the passing of a great American writer, William Hoffman. Born May 16, 1925, Hoffman was the acclaimed author of the 1966 novel of the year, “Yancey’s War.” He was the recipient of nearly every coveted literary prize imaginable: the John Dos Passos Prize, the Andrew Lytle Prize, the O. Henry award, the Hammett Prize, and on and on; every award that every American writer dreams, prays, pleads to the Heavens above to one day attain. Hoffman won them all it seems. I only met Mr. Hoffman once and just recently, about a month ago. As a child, he was a mystery to me, the man my mom called “The Writer,” who lived just off the road at the antebellum Wynyard home in Charlotte Court House, Virginia. On frequent occasions, I’d spot him walking the sidewalk as my family and I passed by in our car on the way to my grandparents’ home in Drakes Branch. I’d peek my head up to catch a glimpse of “The Writer” and as soon as his eyes would cut in my direction, I’d wave, quickly ducking back down, crouching in the seat, wondering for hours if “The Writer” saw me. I wish I could say I knew William Hoffman personally but I didn’t. I knew him in much the same way as the thousands of others who have read his work over the years knew him: through his stories and contemporary Faulknerian prose and through his characters, particularly the blundering buffoon, Marvin Yancey of his classic novel. Allison had known him since she was a child, as did her family. They were next-door neighbors and all attended Village Presbyterian Church in Charlotte Court House, where Allison and I were married on June 20th of this year. “Mr. Hoffman’s going to be at our wedding,” Allison had said to me. “Well, if I see him on the way out down the aisle, I’m just forewarning you, I’m going to stop, speak, and shake his hand. There’s liable to be a wedding party traffic jam.” My wife laughed even though, deep down, she knew I was only half joking. I might actually do it. But it never came to that. Mr. Hoffman was there we’d later learn as we flipped through our wedding guestbook. “Wm. Hoffman,” the shaky handwriting read. About a month ago at Village Presbyterian Church when I finally mustered up enough courage to speak to him (or I should say when my wife called me out for being chicken), he extended his hand and I said shaking his hand in mine, “I just wanted to thank you for your books. I’ve read two of your novels.” “Only twelve more to go,” he said laughing, referring to the fourteen novels he had written over the course of his life. “I hope you’re taking good care of my girlfriend,” he said, grinning at my wife. “I’ve known her since she was itty-bitty.” “And four short story collections,” I responded. He smiled. “I’m never washing this hand again,” I said to Allison an hour later as I cranked the engine of my car, leaving church. “I’m proud of you,” she said, “You finally did it. You finally met him. That wasn’t so hard was it?” “I can’t believe I met William Hoffman,” I said, looking at my hand. “Mark my words. He’ll go down in literary history as one of the great American writers of the twentieth century one day. I’m telling you. He’s that good. He’s up there with Faulkner and Hemingway. He’s better than Hemingway. One day, some literary historian will unearth Hoffman’s works and he’ll be like all the greats. He’ll get his due. I can’t believe I met him. This is one of the greatest days of my life.’” When I heard Allison’s voice turn to despair, I knew something bad had happened. There was no second-guessing the tone that sprang from her lungs. On Sunday, she lost a friend, a staple of her childhood, her next-door neighbor; and the literary world lost one of the true greats of the English language, a magnificent wordsmith, “The Writer.” For summaries on Hoffman’s many books, visit: Fantastic Fiction’s website or pick up “Yancey’s War” or “Lies” from Amazon.com.  image: courtesy of Pam Watkins http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/h/william-hoffman/shapeimage_4_link_0
 
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Jeffrey Pillow Jeffrey works as a Communications Analyst in the healthcare industry, and is a contributing writer and columnist for The Lynchburg Ledger, Press Media Group, and URGE Magazine (Palari Publishing). He is the author of the upcoming memoir, When the Lights Go Out at 10:16. He lives in Charlottesville, VA with his fiancée, Allison, and their dog, Mozzarella Cheese. Enjoy the column? J. Pillow can be reached via e-mail here  mailto:jeffreypillow@gmail.com?subject=RUSE%20columnmailto:RUSE@RUSEmag.com?subject=A.%20Coronado:%20shapeimage_21_link_0