The short review: Occasionally interesting, but ultimately self-absorbed.
The details: I keep reading books that I think are going to be discussions of a subject when really they're about the author.
I read The Mockingbird Next Door: Life with Harper Lee because I thought it would be about Harper Lee. I was rewarded for my nosiness by learning everything I never wanted to know about Marja Mills, the author.
Similarly, I heard an interview with Kate Bolick on a book review podcast. She talked about the evolution of the word "spinster," the history of how unmarried women in America are treated, and some important "spinster" authors. I came to what I still think is the understandable conclusion that those were what this book would be about.
I mean, I have a copy of Marilyn Yalom's A History of the Wife. It is, quite literally, a history of what being married and female has meant in the Western world throughout recorded history. I figured Spinster would be a sort of bookend to that work.
Such a bookend is still needed. Bolick didn't feel like writing one.
Which is fine. She can write whatever kind of book she wants to. If she wants to write an autobiography and she can find a publisher, good on her.
I just wish she'd made it a bit clearer that this was a memoir with a certain slant, rather than a study of spinsterism.
To be fair, I did learn a lot about some authors I hadn't heard of, like Neith Boyce, and some I had heard of but didn't know much about, like Maeve Brennan. I added a lot of books to my "must read" list after finishing Spinster. (Considering what an out-of-control monster that list is, maybe I shouldn't be listing this as a positive. But I'm not willing to be cured of this particular addiction, so I'll just go with it.)
The problem is, I learned a lot more about an author I had no interest in whatsoever – specifically, Kate Bolick. Her autobiographical forays weren't nearly as tedious as Marja Mills', and she sounded like a really nice person in that interview. Still, I found myself asking this book time and time again, "Sweetie – why do you think I care?"
Speaking of people talking to writers who aren't actually in the same room with them: Bolick considers herself friends with the five female authors she focuses on in this book. The fact that they're dead just makes it that much easier for her to get away with routinely calling them by their first names.
Seriously – could we stop doing this, please? Could we all please FOR THE LOVE OF MY SANITY STOP referring to, say, Austen as "Jane" and Dickinson as "Emily"?
Look, I get it. There are authors who are so brilliant that they make you feel as if they're right there in the room with you, telling you a story you already know and at the same time can't wait to hear more of. They make you feel the way you did the first time (or maybe the last time) you fell in love: "This is it. This is THE ONE FOR ME."
I get it. I've been there.
And that's just it. We've ALL been there. The fact that you happened to notice – all by your little self! – that an author is amazing doesn't make you special. It certainly doesn't make you part of that author's inner circle. It means that the writer is a genius. You may feel you know her, but let me assure you: she doesn't know you. And when you call her by her first name, you're implying she does.
You're also not-so-coincidentally indulging in exactly the kind of disrespect female authors have suffered since there's been such a thing as a female author.
I know writers who are absolutely batty about Shakespeare. Norrie Epstein is so infatuated with the Bard, she wrote a whole book called The Friendly Shakespeare in an effort to convert more people to the cause.
You know what neither she nor any other author IN THE HISTORY OF THE FREAKIN' WORLD ever calls Shakespeare? William.
True fact: I homeschool my son and wanted him to grow up reasonably literate. I thought a good first step in that direction would be to make sure he didn't suffer from a widespread epidemic I call "fear of Shakespeare." Someone who knew how much I love his plays once gave me a small stuffed Shakespeare doll. When my son was little, I referred to this doll as "Billy." I made him talk, and I always made him sound drunk, and he frequently roared out for more cakes and ale.
"Stop yelling, Billy," my then-five-year-old-son would say. "You've had too much ale already."
Mission accomplished. My son spent his younger years absolutely infatuated with A Midsummer Night's Dream and The Tempest. He often asked if Ariel could please come over and give him magic lessons.
I wanted my son to have a comfortable relationship with The Bard, so I took him down a notch by referring to him by his first name.
Women writers, even the ones who win awards and write classic novels and get their stuff on required reading lists, are not exactly suffering from a surfeit of respect.
It would be nice if a writer like Kate Bolick, who identifies as a feminist and who actually has some good stuff to say on that subject, could consider setting a good example.
Kate – since I'm sure she won't mind me calling her that – refers to Edna St. Vincent Millay as Edna, Maeve Brennan as Maeve, and Neith Boyce as – well, I'm sure you can guess. She also implies that she has a chatty relationship with them, or possibly she thinks she's channeling them:
Maeve didn't get what all the fuss over sex was about. Sure, she said, she was no prude, but the men seemed to like it a lot better than she did. Neith argued that this was purely a historical-moment problem: practicing free love had made the men really good in bed; however, by Maeve's time, they'd all forgotten about the clitoris. Edna was skeptical: perhaps you prefer women?
Bwahaha.
I guess I should offer an award to anyone ballsy enough to brag that she began to experience a growing interest in the life and work of Edith Wharton, and "soon enough I was calling her Edith." Instead, I'm going to recommend that anyone who reads Wharton's autobiography and thinks she's on a first-name basis with the writer should see a doctor immediately. Or maybe just go in for a basic literacy test, because seriously those words on those pages do NOT mean what you think they mean.
Of course, I guess I shouldn't expect better from a writer who talks about how boring other people's dreams are and then proves it by taking three pages to describe a dream she had.
And I definitely shouldn't expect anything but on-the-page self-indulgence from a writer who'd hoped to be a professional poet and whose biggest objection to her own early efforts were that what she'd written didn't "remotely convey what I actually felt." If the poems you write are for your own pleasure or your therapist's use, that's important. If you want to go pro, shouldn't you be worrying less about your precious feelings and more about, I don't know, how GOOD your poems are?
Believe it or not, I started this review thinking I'd give this book three stars. I'm going to go ahead and give it two because I'm grateful for the book recommendations I gleaned from it.
And then I'm going to return it to the library (two days late, dang nab it) and get an early start on my anticipated New Year's resolution to ease up on the library stuff and start reading the books I already own. I'm thinking Marilyn Yalom's A History of the Wife might be a good start.
But if Yalom – may I call her Marilyn? – starts starts talking about her own married life...seriously, heads are going to roll.