When Joanna Biggs reached a point in her life when she was frequently more sad than happy, and when she had more questions than answers, she turned for help to the thing she was closest to, namely, books. More correctly though, it was the writers of books, all women, who in some fashion began life again in circumstances and at ages when it might have seemed an inappropriate step to take. “Beginning again” clearly resonated with Ms. Biggs at this time in her life.
The women she selects are Mary Wollstonecraft, George Eliot, Zora Neale Hurston, Virginia Woolf, Simone de Beauvoir, Sylvia Plath, Toni Morrison, and Elena Ferrante. In most of the cases, she had read these women’s works, but there were one or two she hadn’t read, even though she had opportunities to do so in younger days. As she explored and studied the biographies of these women, she found many touchpoints common to her own life, and she drew strength and wisdom from the choices these women faced and the decisions they made.
The result is that A Life of One’s Own: Nine Women Writers Begin Again is an extraordinarily revelatory and intimate memoir narrating one woman’s rise from depression and despondency to an elevated sense of self-awareness and a new, invigorated appetite for life. Ms. Biggs’s narrative crisscrosses many aspects of her life, including family, marriage, friends, and various jobs of work.
Along the way, she affords readers fascinating biographical details of all nine women, many of which resonated comfortably with my own modest range of knowledge. I have read everything written by George Eliot and Elena Ferrante, and only A Very Easy Death by Simone de Beauvoir. I’ve read nothing by any of the others (although I have read Frankenstein by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft…but I suppose that doesn’t count). What I didn’t know but learned has resulted in the pleasant consequence of creating a strong desire to read the works of those women writers still foreign to me.
But while I relished learning more about these women, I considered the numerous instances of Ms. Biggs’s courageous and cathartic soul-baring a far bigger reward. Reflecting on her failed marriage, for example, she doesn’t flinch from confessing: “I shouldn’t have collapsed myself into my marriage; I shouldn’t have made my husband the arbiter of my worth as a writer, or a person, or anything else. I should have spoken up about the things that bothered me…By leaving my husband, I discovered, like [Sylvia] Plath, that I hadn’t grown up yet. I hadn’t found a mature identity of my own and it has been unending, agonizing, confusing work over these past years to find one. But I have had the chance and support to do it, which Plath didn’t.”
And when she admits the following, it makes one want her as a close friend, and to be her close friend. “All of my closest friends now have seen me cry; they have heard me say I love them; they have seen me angry, withdrawn, vicious, and petty; they have had to remind me to behave better. They have stood with me while I was messy, and I have tried my best to stand with them when they have needed me.”
I’m unsure why I purchased this book and then compellingly raced through it as if on a deadline, but I’m certainly glad I did. My literary consumption comprises books that I consciously choose to read, and books that choose me. I have great success with books I choose, but inevitably, I like some much more than others. With books that choose me—the category into which A Life of One’s Own falls—well, the mystique of that process is matched only by its unerring results, for I have loved every book that has chosen me!
I highly recommend A Life of One’s Own: Nine Women Writers Begin Again. It is a deeply satisfying read, not least of all because of Ms. Biggs’s seemingly effortless and beautiful prose, free of any bumps in the road for readers. But I feel it is only fitting to give the author the last word on how, with an appreciative nod to American zeitgeist, she set about acquiring a life of her own. “My life had been so sad; watching my mother fade away had been grueling; my divorce exhilarating then confusing; depression had exhausted me. I’d changed because of the events in my life and it felt like I was better fitted to American openness: I was embarrassing the English with my need to earnestly remake my life, but Americans understood wanting a life of one’s own.”