The entries below are contributed directly from John R. Corrigan. If you have suggestions for future blog topics, please contact John with your idea.

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November 9, 2007

A week after moving from Presque Isle, Maine, to our new home, the Pomfret School in Pomfret, Connecticut, I received terrible news: Florence Zettergren, 63, had died following her long battle with cancer.

It’s no newsflash that midlist authors cherish the indies. Yet even among independent booksellers, Florence Zettergren, owner of Pieces of Eight in Presque Isle, was a treasure. She welcomed authors with open arms, supported her local arts scene with a deep passion, and put on author events that were the things of a lowly scribe’s dreams.

For reasons I’ll never fully understand, she was uniquely supportive of my career. When my first novel came out in 2001, my area chain store told my publisher I wasn’t a big enough draw to warrant an event. Shortly thereafter, Florence called inviting me to sign at her book/knitting store. I jumped at the chance. Flo baked cookies, served punch during the event, and—I soon realized—did even more behind the scenes. A TV crew appeared halfway through the signing to interview me for the six-o’clock news. Of course, I vowed to launch every book I wrote at Pieces of Eight. And each subsequent fall, Flo treated me like a New York Times bestseller.

But when I think of Florence Zettergren, I don’t think about book signings. I think about family. And family is what the independent bookseller represents, at least to me. Several years ago, Florence greeted me at the door, pointed me to the table of books and cookies, and then she spent the evening teaching my oldest daughter, Delaney, to knit. I watched as Flo helped Delaney select yarn, choose a starter kit, and gently taught her to make a scarf. It was as if I’d gone back in time and sat witnessing Flo teach her own daughter to knit. More recently, she taught my youngest, Audrey, the skill as well—this time when her health was in obvious decline.

That was Florence. She was there to help, whether you had won the Pulitzer, were a midlist author, or were a seven-year-old with $3 to spend.  

As Florence’s health declined, I attempted to cancel what would be my final signing at Pieces of Eight. Florence hadn’t made it to the store in weeks, and her family had begun liquidation sales. Yet she insisted we do the event as planned and said she’d be there. Despite how she felt, the window signage was great as always, the cookies and punch were fabulous, and the same collection of family members and friends appeared. But Florence never arrived that night. I knew why.

And what was on the horizon.

The writing life puts us in contact with lots of terrific “book” people, those who truly care about books and the individuals who love and write them. On Aug. 8, the world lost one of the best among that group.

With a heavy heart,

JRC