By Margaret Evans, Editor

It was a dark and stormy night . . .

            Actually, it was early evening, and not quite dark yet, and not really stormy, either . . . just blustery and a little drizzly. But it was cold. Marvelously cold. After a relentless stretch of warm, sunny weather, it finally felt like November.

By Margaret Evans, Editor

I think I’ve mentioned this before. Whenever I find myself scrambling around for a column topic – which happens more than you’d imagine, given my delightfully opinionated nature – I can always count on my husband to deliver the following advice: “Write about the outrage.”

The ‘Pat Conroy at 70’ Literary Festival has finally come and gone. We talked it up quite a bit in this publication – for quite a while – and some of you might be all Conroy’d out by now. If so, I humbly invite you to turn the page. I won’t take it personally.

            Neither will Pat. He’s sick of himself, too.

            But I couldn’t let this weekend pass into history without sharing my impressions. ‘Cause, you know . . . that’s what I do. It’s a compulsion.