Willard and Louise 1979

     Writing non-fiction isn’t as straightforward as it seems.  Separating “truth” from “fact” or translating someone’s real-life charisma into words and sentences is a challenge.  Such is the task I have set myself in writing about my uncle, Willard Espy.
     I have always considered his life romantic – attending the Sorbonne, earning money in Paris by modeling, living in Greenwich Village in the thirties, writing and interviewing celebrities and news worthies for the Reader’s Digest, becoming a best-selling author.  Oysterville boy makes good.  Great stuff and a natural for a biography!
     It just never occurred to me that I would be the one to write his story; it has taken a long time for me to grow comfortable with the idea.  Certainly, I knew him as well as anyone besides his immediate family and, even then, over a longer period of time than most.  He and my mother, being only eleven months apart, were as connected in many ways as if they were twins.  Time spent with Willard and letters sent from Willard are part of my earliest memories.
     When he was in Oysterville a summer or so before he died, he entrusted me with his “papers” – correspondence, drafts of early short stories and poetry, the original manuscripts of many of his books.  It was a treasure trove that I eventually processed for the Washington State Historical Society’s Research Center where it has been added to the Espy Family archive. During that year-long process of sorting and cataloging the paper remnants of his life, I realized that I was the logical person to write Willard’s biography.
     So here I am in the middle of it all – trying to capture the glamour that surrounded him.  It’s easy enough to describe his signature white suits, custom-tailored in London, and always worn with a fresh flower boutonniere.  But how to describe the savoir-faire with which he wore it?  Or that certain teasing innuendo in his voice when he spoke to a pretty woman – or actually, any woman?  Or the way he had of putting strangers at such ease that they ended up telling him their family secrets when their intent had been to ask for an autograph?
     I’m still at the maybe stage, of course.  Maybe I have the makings of a book.  Maybe I’m up to the challenge.  Maybe it will get finished and find a publisher.  And, maybe Willard would be pleased.