Should writers marry other writers, as Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley and her poet husband did? We know about "literary power couples." Me, I’m different. I don’t want to be a “power” (with a few worthy exceptions, such as seeing if I can’t make Amazon’s Kindle designers care more about the elderly, K-12 kids and others with vision impairments). I just want to get on with my work.
I don’t need my wife to bolster my writerly identity. No, I value Carly for her general intelligence and her ability to be compatible with me, in mood and in many other ways (she, too, loves gadgets and reads digital books almost exclusively, for health-related reasons). We’ve been married close to a quarter of a century, but sometimes in the presence of strangers, we’ll hold hands and gaze into each other’s eyes and say: “Forgive us, we’ve only been married two days.” In my novel I knocked myself out to get my characters yelling at each other. Same in a spec screenplay I’m working on. In real life, Carly and I prefer to discuss and analyze. We save our wrath for a stuffed dog, an ever-handy target in place of each other. Similarly, Joanna Cabot, one of the writers working for my TeleRead e-book news site, has written how happy she is with her Beloved, who isn’t really into reading novels, much less writing them.
We’ve got company in our belief that writers needn’t marry other writers. Consider George Gissing’s New Grub Street, the ultimate novel about the writerly life. Edwin Reardon, the art-for-art’s-sake novelist, dies in poverty. His problem, as explained by Jasper Milvain (the self-promotional literary critic who would fare so well as an entrepreneur today)? Reardon married a not-so-frugal literary lady. Jasper says Reardon would have been better off with “a decent little dressmaker” so he could focus more on his art and worry less about the material. In a similar vein, I’m reminded of Joanna’s essay about female novelists living off rich husbands.
I can anticipate the response. This is the era of equality. Men don’t have to worry as much as before about supporting women. I acknowledge that. In fact, I’m just saying what was right for Joanna and me, not saying that everyone should do the same. I haven’t researched how happy Mary Shelley, the author of Frankenstein, was with her poet husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley. But they stuck together through more than a few obstacles until her young husband drowned. Not every writerly match is as ill-fated as the one between Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes, whom feminists blame for his wife’s suicide (I won’t pass judgment here). If nothing else, a literary spouse may excel as a reader of first drafts and as a picker of the right parties to go to.
So what’s your take on this issue? Should writers marry other writers? Are you an author? Have you yourself married another? Or set out not to marry a writer and maybe not even date one? Or been married and divorced from a writer? Along the way, keep in mind that not all writers have the same temperament, and that the kind of writing might count. Typically—exceptions abound—nonfiction writers might lack the passions of playwrights and poets. But who says the rules and stereotypes need always apply? Now, let’s hear from you, and meanwhile, happy V Day!
This essay appeared in a slightly different form on the TeleRead e-book news site.
First things, first—when Jonas-style blizzards hit us. The shovel. The heater. The pipes. The insulation. The windshield scraper. Whatever your priorities would be in the wintertime version of Maslow's hierarchy of needs.
In Northern Virginia, where I live, some feared it might take several days for the power to return if it went off—due to the high winds that could imperil workers repairing the lines. The worst probably won't happen. But if it did? What to do for entertainment? Of course you could talk to family or friends if the power failed during the night—not such a bad idea—but here's another one. E-books.
To prepare for Jonas, Carly and I charged up all our e-readers and phones. If the power had gone off during Snowmageddon II, I finally would have gotten a chance to finish The Devil’s Chessboard: Allen Dulles, the CIA and the Rise of America’s Secret Government on my Kindle Paperwhite. I had been reading it on my iPad and Nexus 6 cell phone, but with power a little iffy, backlit E Ink might be more fitting, especially at night. No flashlight needed—a limitation of paper books. And a muchlonger battery life.
So what e-books can we rely on to get through Winter Storm Jonas, from commercial e-book stores or the D.C. Public Library? Of course, The Dish is reachable anywhere in the world by way of the Web, and you’re still free to share your enthusiasms even if you’re in the tropics. But I’ll be especially curious what others in Snowmageddon country are reading. And don’t just give titles. Tell why you like such-and-such book. In the case of The Devil’s Chessboard, I’ll spell out my thoughts in a future review.
If you’re a bit of a contrarian and can’t get enough snow and ice, you can always revisit Jack London’s Call of the Wild (free Project Gutenberg text here, free LibriVox audiobook here). Or read Jules Verne’s An Antartic Mystery (text here, audio here). Speaking of the M word, a page from Cozy Mysteries Unlimited focuses on “books that revolve around snow storms.”Horror fan? Keep in mind the fearsome winter that set the mood for Mary Shelley when she was writing Frankenstein (text here,audio here). Or how about H. P. Lovecraft’s At the Mountains of Madness? As for winter romances, check out a 2014 list from Bookish. For the ultimate winter novel, at least in spirit, consider Edith Wharton's Ethan Frome (text here, audio here).
Or, yes, you could read up on climate change. Um, the phrase “global warming” just doesn’t say it all.
Nick Carraway and your English lit professor got it all wrong. A madman’s gunshots did not kill the hero of The Great Gatsby, published 90 years ago on April 10, 1925.
The corpse inside the coffin was someone else, a clever ruse. With a “heavyweight team” of FBI men about to nab him, the real Jay Gatsby fled to Havana to grow still richer off illicit booze—closer to the source in the distribution chain. Gatsby got in on the casino action, too. If alive today, he would be thrilled by the bonanzas that the recent thaw in U.S.-Cuban relations might eventually send his way.
So—with the exception of the 21st-century diplomatic update—goes Gatsby: My Story. Michael Spindler’s unauthorized sequel appeared in 2013. Shame on the American literary establishment for overlooking it even if some unpleasant legal questions may arise. Meanwhile don’t worry about my spoiler. Plenty else will keep you reading.
Did you know, for example, that Jay’s memories of Daisy were not as platonic as Carraway led us to believe? Daisy’s father the judge had given her a white Stutz roadster for her 18th birthday. In it she and Jay ventured to “out-of-the way dark places” and “rutted like alley cats and howled nearly as much.” Speaking of judges, Gatsby sees them as more buyable than admirable. In marrying Daisy—a judge‘s daughter from Alabama—Tom Buchanan was slumming it. But then again, in the wake of all the gossip following his “shamelessly public affair” with an Armour heiress, Tom’s choices in Chicago were limited.
Faring no better in Spindler’s sequel is Daisy, “a complete ninny mentally; it was only the brilliance of her smile and the smoothness of her thighs that distracted you from the idiocy of whatever she said.”
By contrast, as a revisionist, Spindler offers encomia for Arnold Rothstein, the real gangster after whom Fitzgerald modeled his Meyer Wolfsheim character. Oh, yes, Rothstein "The Brain" fixed the 1919 World Series—he was hardly crime-free. But Carraway just was not aware of the true origins of the "finest specimens of human molars" that the Wolfsheim character turned into cuff buttons. How could the specimens not be first-rate? They were from the gangster’s own mouth, courtesy his dentist. Spindler’s Wolfsheim/Rothstein just had a good sense of humor and this thing about keeping his body parts away from strangers.
I know. Even more than half a century after Fitzgerald’s death, certain people may hate Spindler’s book, including perhaps some in the Washington area, where Fitzgerald's daughter, Frances “Scottie” Lanahan Smith was a writer in Georgetown. I can understand. No, it isn’t just a matter of respect for a literary giant. Consider the more sympathetic and engaging of the characters he created. Even if Carraway is naive and far from the most reliable of narrators, he comes across as likable, almost a member of the family. My late mother was from the Midwest, not Carraway and Fitzgerald’s Minnesota, but a place close enough in mindset in some ways. For me, at least, The Great Gatsby remains a Great American Novel, easily able to weather Spindler’s revisionism.
That said, let’s not write off Spindler as a literacy parasite. More at SolomonScandals.com—including some legal angles, which are as fascinating as the literary ones. Gatsby: My Story is not on sale at the U.S. site of Amazon, and the Sonny Bono Copyright Term Extension Act just might be a reason.