Message to the universe and Brian Doyle

Maybe this weird disorienting clumsy thing has happened to you. 

I learned today that a lovely helper and mentor of mine passed away ... six years ago. We didn't keep in touch. Our orbits only briefly intersected anyway — it happened back in Oregon, from about 2008-2014. Brian Doyle was an amazing writer and editor at the University of Portland, and he sent me free advice and support when I took over my first university magazine. It mattered more than I was ever able to tell him. 

I had probably gotten that editor job because one or two people high in the university's leadership wanted the magazine to fail. This was when everybody had started opining about The Death of Print and magazines had started to seem pretty expensive. (They are.) Unfortunately for them, I had an immediate boss who was willing to say, "Fuck it, we'll make this thing soar." And I had Brian to send me emails like: 

Got your mag in the mail. Boldest cover in the pile. Never ever expected that from your shop, which is why it works. Keep being weird.  

-B  

We kept the magazine going and won awards and wrote fresh and sometimes risky articles and told the story of a wonderful place of learning. It was an amazing gift.

Here’s another gift. One of Brian's signature moves was to string together adjectives—no regard for punctuating them—kind of like an intuitive chef might throw a bunch of things into a pot to see what happens. Except Brian always knew what happens. You get memorable sentences that engage the eyeballs and the imagination. It takes mental work to put those adjectives together as a coherent descriptor, but it was always worth that work.

I watched Brian use his strings of adjectives and realized that they weren’t a tactic as much as they were reflections of his identity. In a sense, they were a form of truth-telling. This is how I think and am able to share my wonder. Brian always had wonder. He wrote more beautifully than everyone else because he was writing more freely than everyone else.

In a sense, they were a form of truth-telling: This is how I think and am able to share my wonder.

I’ve missed Brian’s influence over the years. The memories arrive unannounced. I’ve missed his adjectives, too. I know I will years from now, when I'm looking for the perfect word and realize that, yes, it's okay if I pick a few that feel right together and just go for it. 

So thank you, Brian. You were a wacky brilliant confusing electric man, and your energy still buzzes around us.