Kindle Notes & Highlights
Dear Randy, oh sorry I mean, Mr. Randall Crimson, esteemed thesis advisor:
This chapter could serve as a writer's manifesto.
I should have let them sell the movie rights. I mean, integrity is nice and all. But I thought I had many books ahead of me, I thought that was enough, would be enough, meant something somehow. How could I have failed to notice that movies were what cemented books into immortality? That since the beginnings of the film industry, it was the only true way for writers to make money?
Sad but so true in America that books are judged based on whether or not they are made into blockbuster films.
But any mother will tell you—it’s not the kids. The kids are the good part. It’s our culture’s Puritan residue setting mothers up to fail that’s the problem. Do it all, and bear the impossibilities quietly, Goody Patience! What’s the problem, you’re not a witch, are you? Yes, as a culture we wanted you to be Marilyn-Monroe-Beyoncé-Reality-Show-Star-Sexpot twelve seconds ago, but you’re a mother now, settle down and stop wanting things! What’s that, you say but all you want is reliable healthcare and decent childcare that doesn’t cost more than you could ever possibly make? How dare you,
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Unrealistic expectations of motherhood
“Eddy’s doing great! She married a doctor!” It felt like a way of securing a life without having to make a living. But as generations of housewives and queens can attest, that doesn’t necessarily add up to living.
A life that isn't a living
But also, why does marriage seem to erase men’s sense of feminism? I swear he seemed awfully enlightened when we were dating.
Ouch! Marriage is the death of feminism.
Anyway. This isn’t about him, of course. All I’m trying to say is, I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to regain that purity and perceptiveness I used to have—that sensitivity to everything that made me want to be a writer in the first place.
Sensitivity of a writer
destroyed by the book being out in the world. It wasn’t even the bad reviews—yes, there were those, as you may have forgotten in the rosy glow of its softened reputation—but believe it or not, it was the good reviews too. It was having to be An Author. Being noticed and seen. You think you want that as a writer—I know you do, sweet Seth Edwards, aspiring author, scrapping for clips—but then it requires you to grow a thick skin. And how can a thick skin be sensitive enough to feel deeply—you get me, right?
Curse of the bestseller
The Times review had wondered if a twenty-something girl could even really have written it—was that good or bad, my father wanted to know.
Like the response to O'Connor's first novel
none of it felt as close to the bone, as true and full of meaning as crafting a single perfect sentence, well-tuned as a pitch pipe, glowing like a sculpted length of gold. Very few people, in fact, understand that.
Wow! Now that gets to the heart of what it means to be a writer.
When a pandemic knocks the country flat, like in an overwrought apocalypse movie?
Are you really going to be a doctor, Robin? Are you really going to work with the elderly? That’s so noble, of course. And you know I’m immensely proud of you. Of course. But here’s a thought: You’re going to want to pay attention. You’re going to need to fucking listen. Sweetheart.
Edna scolds her mansplaining son in the section that follows. Pure gold.
Regular everyday life isn’t enough for you—but, actually, that’s not a problem. I mean, I understand that it doesn’t feel good. But in actuality, this is why you will be one of the people—few, in the grand scheme of things—to truly live. It’s good to be a seeker. It’s best to be a questioner. That’s what separates us from the worms, my dear.
The unexamined life isn't worth living.
It’s not about the answers. If you knew all the answers, you wouldn’t be a writer, you’d be a pundit. It’s ok to have the questions. And it’s ok to not know why you have the questions. You’re the wild animal, not the zookeeper.
It's not about the answers.
